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Number 


DECEMBER 


lK^f\N5WER TOR 

(^rist/w Prayer 

lU-UbTRatED $1 fylNlg 5.5 x 


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Issued Semi-Monthly. Entered at the Post-Ollice at New York as second-class matter* 

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THE ANSWER TO A 
CHRISTMAS PRAYER 


ANNIE 

u And the songs that echo longest, 

Deepest, fullest, truest, strongest, 

With your life-blood you will write.”— F. R. H. 


BY 

S. SWAN 


/ 


v\ 




6 4 ^ y r ' 'Z- 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1894, by 
Peter Fenelon Collier 

Id the Office of the Librarian of Congress Washington. 


P'2.3 


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Prepared by SCOTT & BOWNE, N. Y. Druggists sell if. 



THE ANSWER TO 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


CHAPTER I. 

A husband and wife sat late together by a 
dying fire, discussing ways and means ; perplex- 
ity and deep anxiety writ large on their faces 
and finding expression in the hopeless melancholy 
tone of tlieir voices. They were not old, but life 
had been to them that long and continuous strug- 
gle which leaves indelible marks behind. They 
sat in a shabby, though homelike room, and they 
wore worn and shabby clothes. Yet they looked 
well cared for and neat. The wife was one of 
those thin, wiry little creatures who possess as- 
tonishing staying and enduring powers, though 
outward appearance belies it. In her youth she 
had been distinguished by a certain prettiness 
which had not remained ; her hair, once soft and 
golden, clustering in little ripples above her brows, 
was now dull, and plain, and thin; her cheek had 
lost its soft contour ; her mouth wore the grave, 

( 3 ) 


4 


THE ANSWER TO 


harsh lines indicative of much poring over many 
hard problems. She had borne six children, all 
of whom lived ; the youngest, five years old, was 
still the baby of the house. Her husband was 
several years her senior, and looked his age to 
the full. He was a gentle, mild-mannered, un- 
distinguished-looking person, with a pale, soft 
face, scanty gray hair, and weak-looking eyes 
protected by a very ugly pair of dark-colored 
spectacles. He wore the ordinary garb of a city 
man, and the frock-coat — well cut at the begin- 
ning, still looked respectable, though it was 
glazed and threadbare at the seams. He had 
been a city clerk for five-and-thirty years, and 
the awful monotony of his daily existence had 
left its impress on him, and had successfully 
crushed out such individuality as Nature had 
bestowed upon him. He was now simply a 
machine, wound up daily for the benefit of the 
great house of Deverill & Company, in whose 
service he had been since his boyhood. He had 
served the firm faithfully and well, giving the 
best that was in him for a meager salary, and 
now that he was old and unfit, the usual fate had 
befallen him — he found himself supplanted; and 
he had brought his burden home with him for 
the first time that day, and laid it upon, his wife’s 
faitlifu] heart. And it had caused a bright spot 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


5 


of indignation to rise in her faded cheek, and a 
most unusual light to flash in her gentle eye. 

“Hard, Reginald!” she exclaimed, giving her 
needle and thread an expressive jerk. “It is 
worse than hard — it is cruel, wicked, unjust: 
and I would tell Mr. Deverill so myself if I 
could see him. I have a very good mind — a 
very good mind — to go down to Cornhill to-mor- 
row myself to tell him so.” 

“It would do no good, Lucy, none at all,” he 
said, with that gentle patience born of years of 
repression; “Mr. Deverill is a hard man, and 
has always been, and of course we can’t expect 
anybody* to pay for unsatisfactory work. I have 
known for some time that my service has been 
very poor, amd it has been bitter to me, very 
bitter, to admit it.” 

He got up from his chair with a certain rest- 
lessness- and walked across the floor, his wife’s 
eyes following him with sympathy which only 
indignation kept from tears. 

“To think that you have served them with 
such faithfulness for forty years, and that they 
should serve you like this. It’s — it’s disgrace- 
ful, and they’ll be made to suffer for it. Mr. 
Deverill will have a curse with his millions for 
it.” 

“Hush, hush! Lucy. Remember he hasn’t 


6 


THE ANSWER TO 


cast me off quite penniless, he has offered me 
a pension.” 

“Rut fifty pounds a year — only a house-rent! 
and where’s the food and the clothes and the 
boys’ education to come from? Why, Reginald, 
what shall we do?” 

All her despair centered in the last word, and 
she let her hands fall helplessly in her lap, and 
the wrinkles seemed to deepen on her brow, the 
lines about her mouth grew more pitifully hard. 
Her husband, accustomed to see in her a con- 
tinual self-possession, regarded her perplexedly. 
If she failed him in this crisis, what would be- 
come of him, of them all? * 

“Lucy,” he said, hesitatingly, and with a cer- 
tain air of distress, “don’t give way. What will 
become of us, my dear, if you give way?” 

She recovered herself instantly. 

“I was not giving way, Reginald, but the 
situation is serious. Fifty pounds a year; and 
nobody earning anything but Philippa, and Stans- 
field’s career will have to be stopped. It is very 
hard.” 

Stansfield was the eldest son, though second 
in the family, and was a lad of good parts, and 
his mother had been pardonably ambitious for 
him. 

“It will,” answered the careworn father with 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


7 


a sigh. “But I always thought Oxford for Stans- 
field an impossible thing. It takes a great deal 
more money, Lucy, than you or any of us imagine ; 
and unless a lad can take his place with his com- 
peers, it is no great kindness to him to send him 
there. He has to suffer so many humiliations.” 

“I am sure Stansfield would not have minded 
that, Reginald, if he could have had the other 
advantages . 5 ’ 

“He is just like other lads, Lucy; more high- 
spirited than some. Bui we need not discuss 
that now, seeing it has become impossible. Al- 
though I have to leave Deverill’s, I need not nec- 
essarily remain an idle man. I may get some- 
thing to do which will still enable me to help.” 

His wife’s eyes filled with tears. She did not 
like to say, though the same thought was in both 
their minds, that that was a very slender chance, 
indeed. What use has the busy world for the 
man past his prime, and whose failing powers 
are evident in his very face. It is one of the 
saddest spectacles of the modern world — the 
casting aside of the old when they are no longer 
fit to bear the 'burden and heat of the day. So 
intolerable is it to some sensitive souls that 
they learn to regard Death as their gentlest 
friend. 

“We can talk of that another time, Reginald, 


8 


THE ANSWER TO 


Did Mr. Deverill say when he wished you to 
leave?’ ’ 

“He did not exactly say I was to leave, Lucy. 
He put it more delicately than 1 expected. He 
offered me another post, but I could not accept 
it, dear. God forgive me if I am too proud, but 
I could not take a more subordinate place than 
I have filled, at least in that house. I said I 
should prefer to leave. ” 

“You were quite right. I could not bear it 
for you, either,” she replied, promptly. “I dare- 
say we shall manage it somehow. Did he say 
anything about Philippa?” 

“Nothing about Philippa,” he replied, and an 
odd silence fell upon each. 

“She continues to give satisfaction in the 
office, I trust, Reginald,” said Mrs. Craven, 
anxiously. “I hope there is no possibility of 
her being discharged at this juncture. Her 
salary is a very substantial help.” 

“I don’t think she will be discharged. She 
is a great favorite, anybody can see that; and 
there is no doubt that she is far too good for the 
place.” 

“Well, that is something. 1 think we had 
better go to bed, Reginald ; it is nearly mid- 
night ; and everything will look brighter in the 
morning.” 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


9 


He assented, and immediately proceeded to 
lock up windows and doors, while his wife went 
upstairs. It had been her custom for many 
years to pay a visit every night to the rooms 
occupied by the children, thoug;h they, sleeping 
soundly, were generally unconscious of her 
presence. 

She went last to the room, the old nursery of 
the house, where Philippa now slept with her lit- 
tle sister Lucy. As Mr. Craven, still looking 
worried and anxious, came upstairs, his wife 
called to him softly from the upper landing: 

“Come and look at Philippa; it will do you 
good. It is quite a picture.” 

Together they entered the room, and together 
stood by the bed, where the two girls lay asleep* 
Philippa, dark as the queen whose name she 
bore, and the little Lucy, fair and pale, lyinj 
close to her, the two heads on the same pillow* 
both sound asleep. Philippa was twenty-four, 
and she looked her years to the full. Her face 
was grave, even sad, in repose, and on the long, 
dark lashes which swept her cheek a tear glis- 
tened, which moved her father’s heart. 

4 4 She is a beautiful girl, Reginald. She ought 
to have had a chance.” 

4 4 What kind of chance?” he asked, a vague, 
intolerable yearning stirring in his heart. 


10 


THE ANSWER TO 


“A chance to do well for herself, to marry 
well.” 

“She is young enough, Lucy,” he said, with a 
sudden impatience in his voice. “But I wish — I 
wish I could have given her a brighter girlhood,” 


CHAPTER II. 

The Cravens lived at Clapton — a most un- 
fashionable suburb it is true, but it had many 
advantages in their eyes. Houses were cheap, 
and a good school was at hand ; then they seemed 
quite near to the country and they had the river 
Lea, a perpetual joy, almost at their door. Daily 
Philippa and her father journeyed to Liverpool 
Street by the half-past eight train, which Regi- 
nald Craven had never missed. Breakfast, con- 
sequently, was an early meal, the family being 
gathered about the table generally at half-past 
seven. They had no servant now — since Anna 
the second girl had left school ; in winter they 
breakfasted cozily ‘in the kitchen, thus saving 
both light and nre. Although means were strait- 
ened, they were by no means a dull or depressed 
circle, few merrier households were to be found. 
Many simple pleasures were theirs, all the sweeter 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


II 


because so hardly earned. Then they were a 
singularly united and happy family, to whom 
home was truly the dearest place on earth. By 
six o’clock in the morning Mrs. Craven heard 
Philippa astir, and, lying wide awake listening 
to the two girls busy about their household tasks, 
she told herself she was blessed in her children. 
For more than a year she had tasted the luxury 
of coming downstairs to a bright fire and a tastily 
prepared breakfast, and though Philippa might 
have pleaded her long working day as an excuse 
for tarrying in the morning, she never missed 
her self-appointed task of preparing the morning 
meal, and, to please her devoted daughter, the 
little mother lay still until she was called. It 
was a November morning, and the light was 
still gray with the night shadows as the little 
family, less cheerful than usual, gathered round 
the table. Mrs. Craven had the most comforta- 
ble and sheltered chair near the fire, her hus- 
band sat opposite to her. Philippa presided at 
the tea tr&y, and the other members of the family 
sat where they chose, Stansfield usually by his 
mother’s side. He was a tall, fine looking lad, 
more like Philippa than any of the rest. Anna, 
two lank, long-limbed boys, and the little Lucy 
completed the circle. 

“It’s going to rain this morning, dad,” said 


12 


THE ANSWER TO 


Philippa, as she filled him a second cup. “In 
fact it’s raining now. Did you bring your 
mackintosh home last night?” 

“No, my dear! I forgot it,” he replied. 

“Have mine, dad; I can do without,” said 
Stansfield “Besides, I don’t go in till twelve 
to-day, and it may be fine by then.” 

“I wish I could afford a new mackintosh,” 
said Philippa; “mine is so dreadfully shabby, 
but I must put it on to save my gown.” 

She looked down approvingly at her new neat 
gown of blue serge, which was to be her wearing 
and working dress for the next six months. It 
was a plain gown, but of good material and 
well made. In it Philippa looked particularly 
lady-like and well-dressed, and she felt it; al- 
ways a comfortable 1 " sensation to a womanly 
woman. Philippa was neither vain nor frivol- 
ous, but she believed that every woman ought to 
dress as becomingly and expensively as means 
will admit, and she thought a good deal about 
her own clothes, chiefly perhaps because she had 
to show the best possible results from the small- 
est possible means. And that is always a seri- 
ous problem in small matters as well as great. 
Her father and mother thought her beautiful, 
but she was not so in the strict sense of the 
word. Looking at her casually, she appeared 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


13 


a fresh simple English girl, void of affectation 
or pretension, attractive chiefly because of her 
youth and her perfect health. Yet there was 
something more, a suggestion of strength and 
possibility in her face, a firm decisiveness about 
the mouth when closed, and a grave clearness of 
vision in her eyes, which indicated a woman of 
character who in emergency would probably de- 
velop qualities unlooked for and unexpected. 
Though she said nothing, she observed a deeper 
shade than usual in her father’s face, an added 
expression of care in her mother’s eyes, and 
when she and her father walked toward the 
dreary little Clapton station in the drizzling 
rain, she put the question to him straightly. 
“There’s something worrying you and mother, 
dad; what is it? I thought you had some- 
thing on your mind last night, and ruaw I 
know it.” 

“There is a good deal worrying me, child,” 
he replied, shifting his umbrella to keep off the 
beating rain. “I don’t know that I ought to tell 
you just yet.” 

“You’d better, dad,” she said quietly, “or I 
shall go imagining all sorts of things. I hope 
it isn’t that you’re going to be ill.” 

She looked with affectionate apprehension at 
the bent shoulders, and the pale face to which 


14 


THE ANSWER TO 


the raw morning air had given a bluish tinge, 
and thought how rapidly he was growing old. 

“No, no, my health, thank God, is as good as 
it ever was — or nearly,” he said, correcting him 
self. “My eyesight is the only thing that has 
failed me sadly, and of course that is most im- 
portant. I have made a good, many mistakes, I 
know, but still it is rather hard.”' 

“ What is, father?” 

“Well, I suppose I must tell you. Every one 
will know sooner or later. Mr. Deverill gave 
me notice to quit yesterdaj^.” 

“Father, he never did!” 

Surprise, indignation, just anger, struggled 
together in her voice. 

“He did, my love; but here we are, and there’s 
Benham and the rest. Try not to think any 
more .about it just now. It’s not immediate 
anyhow, only he said the firm had decided that 
a change early in the New Year would be 
desirable. ’ ’ 

Philippa said nothing, and she had a very 
absent salutation for the fellow-passengers with 
whom they had traveled so regularly that they 
seemed like friends. 

Huddled up in the corner of the dingy second- 
class carriage, she pondered many things in her 
heart with a bitterness which showed itself in 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


15 




16 


THE ANSWER TO 


lier face. She had no further opportunity for 
conversatiorf with her father, for two of their 
fellow-passengers walked with them to Oornhill, 
only leaving them at the door of Deverill’s. 

“Let’s go together for lunch to-day, dad — to 
an A.B.O. shop,” Philippa whispered, as they 
passed through the folding doors together. “I 
want to hear all about it; you really ought to 
have told me last night.” 

With a reproving shake of the head and a 
somewhat unsteady smile, she left him and went 
to her own department— the commodious room 
where the letters were type- written and where 
her three companions were already at their tables. 
Philippa was fairly happy in her work, though 
its gray monotony sometimes depressed her young 
soul. But she was wont to still such vague re- 
bellions with the thought of the hundreds in the 
great city who were willing to work and could 
find nothing to do. The sense of duty and obli- 
gation was deeply implanted in her heart, and 
for the sake of the father and mother who made 
the home as happy as they could, she was thank- 
ful that she had found a place where she could 
earn her bread. The other three girls, though 
liking Philippa Craven very well for her kind- 
ness of heart and her habitual evenness of tem- 
per, stood just a little in awe of her, and at times 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


17 


felt her to be a check upon their girlish chatter. 
The clerks in the counting-house were objects of 
intense interest to them. Philippa seemed to be 
unaware of their existence ; and, so contrary is 
mankind, on this very account she was much more 
interesting to the counting-house than the others, 
whose smile and recognition never failed. After 
the usual morning greetings, Philippa relapsed 
into absolute silence, and never opened her mouth 
once till lunch time. She had much to engross 
her thoughts, and to ' account for the unusual 
knitting of her brows, for if Mr. Deverill carried 
out his intention and dismissed her father, the 
problems of the future became more complicated 
than ever. She had, of late years, seen sufficient 
of city life to know that failing powers have no 
market value, but are cast aside without remorse 
in favor of youth and strength, and though 
it seemed intolerably hard, she knew it to be 
inevitable. As she performed her mechanical 
duties to the music of the machines she thought 
of every conceivable plan, feasible and absurd, 
whereby the catastrophe might be averted, or at 
least lessened, and her face wore so grave and 
preoccupied a look that it acted like a charm on 
the others and kept them quiet. Once the door 
opened and a tall, well-preserved, and decidedly 
handsome gentleman of middle age looked into 


18 


THE ANSWER TO 


the room , causing a flutter in every heart but 
Philippa’s; she did not suffer her eyes to dwell 
on his face, though it was at her Mr, Martin 
Deverill, the head of the firm, looked with an 
interest he made no attempt to conceal. While 
the other three with secret flutterings and trem- 
bling hands bent over their work, Philippa never 
changed expression or attitude, which was proud, 
distant, defiant even. 

Mr. Martin Deverill did not linger, but as he 
passed through the counting-house requested 
Reginald Craven to follow him to his room. 


CHAPTER III. 

Reginald Craven expected nothing but the 
confirmation of his dismissal, and entered his 
employer’s room with a very perturbed expres- 
sion on his face. 

4 ‘Shut the door, Craven, and sit down,” said 
Mr. Deverill. “I have a great deal to say to 
you this morning.” 

Craven did so, and his attitude as he sank into 
the chair was that of a man who had parted with 
hope. 

Mr. Deverill remained standing eying his 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


19 


subordinate keenly, and even with a faint ex- 
pression of pity in his eyes. Seeing how Craven 
almost trembled in his presence, he gave a sud- 
den consciousness of power. Yes, in his own 
domain Mr. Martin Deverill was certainly a great 
man, holding many destinies in his hands. His 
first question was calculated to surprise Craven 
very much, and it did. 

“How old would you suppose me to be, 
Craven?” inquired Mr. Deverill, calmly. 

“Sir, of course I know your age. I was here 
when you entered the office, and you were then 
twenty-one.” 

“How long is that ago?” 

“It will be thirty-one years, sir, on the fif- 
teenth of March next.” 

“You have the dates very correctly,” said Mr. 
Deverill, with a dry, inscrutable smile. “That 
makes me fifty-two, doesn’t it? My birthday 
falls in April, on the fourteenth of April I shall 
be fifty-two — not a very old man, Craven, eh?” 

“You don’t look even that, sir,” replied Regi- 
nald Craven. “You have hardly a gray hair; 
you are just ten years younger than I.” 

“Ten years, am I? so you are sixty-two, and 
you look your years. Well, perhaps I have taken 
my ease where it was denied you ; but 1 have 
had my serious troubles also. Tell me, what did 


20 


THE ANSWER TO 


they say at home about our talk yesterday? Have 
you told your wife and family?* ’ 

Craven felt much surprised at the evident 
friendly interest expressed in his employer’s 
look and tone. Though they had been asso- 
ciated for thirty years, there was not the re- 
motest semblance of friendship or familiarity 
between them. Their relations were purely 
those of business, incrusted with an unusually 
large amount of formality. Martin Deverill, 
holding himself aloof so sternly from all his 
employes, even the most trusted, had well earned 
the reputation of being hard and proud. He 
knew absolutely nothing of them except in a 
business capacity, taking not the smallest inter- 
est in any of their affairs. There was thus no 
bond of affection between the great house of 
Deverill and those who worked to carry out its 
ambitions, though those who had served in it for 
so many years felt a certain attachment, merely 
that of habit, to the place. 

“ I told my wife last night, of course,” replied 
Craven, a trifle stiffly — curiously resenting the 
question. 

“Andwhaf did she say? How did she receive 
it?” 

“She was as might have been expected — con- 
siderably distressed.” 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


21 


^How many children have you?” 

“Six, sir.” 

“ And is your daughter who is employed here 
the eldest?” 

“She is.” 

“What age is the youngest?” 

“Five years.” 

“Only five, and you are sixty-two. You have 
given hostages to fortune rather late in life.” 

“I know it,” replied Craven, a trifle sadly. 
“I was forty before I married, through lack of 
means, and my poor wife has known but little 
ease these twenty years.” 

“Let me see, what has your salary been?” 

“Two hundred and fifty, sir, for the last ten 
years.” 

“I suppose Mrs. Craven felt rather indignant 
at the idea of your dismissal?” 

“She did, sir, naturally, more so than I. 
Women look at these things from a standpoint 
of sentiment, not admissible in business rela- 
tions.” 

“I suppose so; and what did your daughter 
say?” 

“My daughter said nothing. I told her only 
this morning as we walked to the station.” 

“But she no doubt will feel equally indignant. 
I saw it in the way she regarded me this morn- 


22 


THE ANSWER TO 


ing. A woman of strong character I should 
imagine her to be — ” 

“ Philippa !’ 5 said Reginald Craven, in faint 
surprise. “She is a very good girl, a most duti- 
ful daughter, an affectionate sister. We are blessed 
in our daughter, Mr. Deverill — in all our children, 
but especially in her.” 

“Blessed as I am cursed,” said Mr. Deverill, 
slowly and with a concentrated bitterness which 
drove the imperturbable expression from his 
face “Do you know anything of my domes- 
tic relations, Craven? Have any whispers of 
the state of affairs in Essex reached this office?” 

“None, sir,” replied Craven, slowly and in 
extreme surprise . 

“You must know, however, that I am a 
widower, and have been for eight years. I 
have two children — a son and daughter.” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Craven, careful not to 
throw too much curiosity into his voice. 

“I made a foolish marriage — as other men 
have done —and I reaped the bitter fruits of it. 
I have not had a day’s happiness or peace these 
twenty years.” 

“Sir, I am sorry to hear it,” replied Craven, 
and his heart, tender by his own domestic peace, 
softened to the rich man whose money could not 
purchase peace of mind. 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


23 


“I have two children, as I said, a son and 
daughter; they are entirely beyond my control.” 

“How old are they?” 

‘ ‘ The boy, Wingate, is nineteen, Alicia is seven- 
teen.” 

“Do they live at home?” 

“Not at present. Wingate is in the country 
with a tutor, Alicia boarding with a cousin of 
mine at Cambridge ; but I wish soon to have them 
both at home.” 

Craven remained silent, not through any lack 
of interest, but because a confidence so unusual 
and unexpected perplexed him. 

“I am going to bring them home, and I sup- 
pose Wingate will come here; but what is to be- 
come of my daughter? You have not seen my 
place in Essex. It is a beautiful spot, but quiet 
and retired. She must have a companion. ^Yhat 
would you advise me to do?” 

“I should advise you, Mr. Deverill, to marry 
again without the slightest delay.” 

Mr. Deverill’ s face promptly brightened, and 
Craven could not help thinking what a pleasant 
face it was when softened by a smile. 

“I have thought of it; but the risks are great. 
My experience was so unhappy that it has made 
a nervous man of me so far as matrimony is con- 
cerned.” 


24 


THE ANSWER TO 


“Was the lady unsuitable?” 

“Entirely so. I married my wife, as some 
other fools have done, from the Variety stage. 
The result was shipwreck and disaster. ' I have 
all my life been striving to counteract inherited 
tendencies in my children, 1 fear without suc- 
cess. They have missed a mother’s care.” 

“It is not too late to give it to them still.” 

Deverill shook his head. 

“I fear it is; but not too late to try the experi- 
ment of pure, wholesome companionship, youth- 
ful companionship especially, for my daughter. ’ 5 

“What would you, then, propose to do?” 

“I thought of one plan, which I shall submit 
to you first. Do you think your daughter would 
accept the post of companion to my daughter?” 

“She might, sir; I cannot say,” replied Cra- 
ven and so great was his surprise he did not 
know what to say. 

“It would be no sinecure, Alicia has a trying 
temper; it is evident that something must be 
done, and that at once.” 

“Well, I can speak to Philippa, if you like,” 
said Craven. 

“There is another way,” said Mr. Deverill — 
and the color rose rather quickly in his face — 4 1 1 
might marry again, as you suggest. I confess 
that seems the easiest solution of the difficulty. 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


25 


It would give the lady an assured position in 
the house and so secure her influence.” 

“It would,” murmured Craven, wondering 
whither all this most unusual communicative- 
ness tended. 

Suddenly Mr. Deverill looked him very 
straightly in the face and said bluntly — 

“Will you give me your daughter for my 
wife?” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Craven’s surprise was too great for words. 
He could only stare helplessly at his employer, 
wondering whether he had heard aright. 

“You know nothing about Philippa, sir,” he 
managed to stammer at length. 

Mr. Deverill smiled. 

“She has been here two years, and during that 
time I have not been quite unobservant. Be- 
sides, a good daughter, they say, makes a good 
wife. H^ve I your permission to speak to Miss 
Craven?” 

“I should like, if you please, to think it over, 
and consult my wife.” 

“Certainly. I should like to make your wife’s 
acquaintance. Shall I say to-morrow evening, 


26 


THE ANSWER TO 


and will you mention the matter to your daugh- 
ter before I come?” 

“I will,” murmured Craven, feeling like a 
man in a dream. 

“I would not wish to seem to bribe, Craven, 
but at the same time there would be advantages 
to your family through such an alliance. You 
would, of course, remain here. The suggestion 
to make a change came from Selwyn, not from 
me ; but of course there would be no more said 
about it.” 

Craven had his own thoughts, not untinged by 
bitterness; but he gave them no voice. . 

“My daughter shall not be urged to sacrifice 
herself for me, or for her family, Mr. Deverill,” 
he said, with a certain dignity Deverill had never 
seen in him before. “She must be allowed free 
choice, must not be biased in the smallest 
degree.” 

“Certainly; I should wish that myself. I can 
at least promise you that, should your daughter 
think favorably of the matter I shall do all a 
man can for her happiness.” $ 

Craven looked at him with a certain wistful- 
ness; then silently bowed his head and took a 
step toward the door. He would have liked to 
ask whether there was any question of affection 
in the matter, whether her many lovely qualities 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


27 


of heart and mind had made their impress on the 
somewhat hard heart of the great city magnate. 
But the words died on his lips, and he went 
dumbly back to his stool in the counting-house, 
to do no more work that day. When business 
hours were over he waited as usual for Philippa 
in the outer warehouse. They had not lunched 
together, Craven sending a message that he could 
not spare the time. As Philippa came along the 
corridor past the counting-house door, Mr. Dev- 
erill apeared at the doorway of his private room. 
She was about to pass without word or look, as 
she had done many times before, the head of the 
firm not having hitherto encouraged even ordi- 
nary courtesies in his employes, when to her sur- 
prise he spoke to her by name. 

“ Will you step in here for one moment, Miss 
Craven?” he asked, not in his usual slightly 
pompous, always arbitrary tone. Looking faint- 
ly surprised she obeyed ; and when the door was 
closed she felt a trifle embarrassed by the stead- 
fastness of his look. 

“Your father has a very important matter to 
discuss with you this evening, Miss Craven,” he 
said at length. “May 1 beg that you will give 
it at least careful consideration?” 

She looked at him with straight, clear eyes, 
and asked simply : 


28 THE ANSWER TO 

“Do you mean his dismissal from this place?” 

“No, though it may, nay, would affect that.” 

Philippa waited a moment, plainly asking fur- 
ther explanation, but none came. Then she 
made a hurried, nervous appeal: 

“Oh, sir, consider the injustice. He has 
served you faithfully for forty years. It is 
not, cannot be right. I am sure if you will 
only consider it, you will see the injustice.” 

Mr. Deverill looked embarrassed, even dis- 
tressed. Philippa looked so beautiful at the mo- 
ment, with the flush of her agitation on her 
cheek, that he felt a curious stirring of the heart. 

“Dear Miss Craven, it is an injustice which 
shall not take place. I promise you that, if you 
in turn will promise the matter I have referred 
to your kind, if possible your favorable, consider- 
ation. It is one which affects my happiness 
deeply.” 

She looked at him innocently, not having the 
faintest idea of his meaning. 

“Of course I will,” she replied. “Anything 
which will help my dear father I will do cheer- 
fully, Mr. Deverill; you must believe that.” 

“I trust — I believe so,” he said, hurriedly. 
Then Philippa with a slight good-evening turned 
to go. To her surprise he offered her his hand, 
in which she laid her own a moment ere she 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


29 



“WILL YOU STEP IN HERE FOR ONE MOMENT, 'MISS CRAVEN?” 



30 


THE ANSWER TO 


passed out. Something in his face, in the un- 
usually keen glance of his eye, disturbed her, and 
she was conscious of a vague discomfort in her 
mind. 

4 4 Surely you have been detained, Philippa, ’ ’ her 
father said, as she joined him in the warehouse. 

“Yes, by Mr. Deverill. He says, dear daddy, 
that you will not be dismissed. I thanked him, 
of course, but there is something in the affair, 
and in his demeanor, I cannot understand.” 

Craven winced, and to hide the flush which 
came to his face he took Philippa’s mackintosh 
from her arm and put it round her shoulders. 

“Shall we take a ’bus, dad?” she asked, peer- 
ing out into the bitter, drenching rain. 

“No, let us walk, if you don’t mind. Come 
under my umbrella.” 

They trudged away together along the muddy 
pavement, two units in the great throng pressing 
homeward after the day’s toil. 

“Philippa, my dear, tell me what Mr. Deverill 
said to you, ’ ’ began Craven, almost in a whisper. 
“Did he — did he surprise you very much?” 

44 A little, daddy. 1 thought his manner odd, 
but he is always odd, more or less. What he 
meant by telling you yesterday you would be 
dismissed, and telling me to-day you wouldn’t, 
1 can’t think. But I told him quite straight 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


31 


that I thought it horribly unjust after forty 
years’ service.” 

“You did! and what did he say?” inquired 
Craven, with almost painful eagerness. 

“Not much; he looked rather meek, and do 
you know, daddy — such silly creatures as we are 
after all — I could not help thinking Mr. Deverill 
the handsomest man I had ever seen, and I never 
even thought of it before. And no w tell me, ” 
she said almost gayly, for a load was lifted from 
her heart, “what is this great matter you have 
to communicate to me, and for which he almost 
humbly begged my kind consideration? Fancy, 
Mr. Deverill begging for anything, and from me, 
dad! 1 confess to being hopelessly mystified. ” 

“You have not the slightest idea, then?” 

“Not the slightest,” she replied, and they stood 
a moment at the edge of the wet pavement wait- 
ing to cross the street. 

“I am afraid to tell you, Philippa. Can’t you 
guess?” 

“Couldn’t possibly, dear; out with it.” 

“Well, Mr. Deverill wishes to marry you,” re- 
plied Craven, nervously, and just then Philippa’s 
laugh, girlish and clear as a bell, rang out, caus- 
ing one or two to look at them amusedly. 

“Oh, dad, don’t cram, as Stan says. At your 
time of life such jokes are not seemly.” 


32 


THE ANSWER TO 


“It’s no joke, my dear. I — I rather wish it 
were,” he said, with a kind of helpless air which 
touched Philippa’s heart. At the same time a 
slow, shamed color began to steal into her cheek. 

“Do you mean to say, dad, that there is any 
truth in what you say?” 

“It is quite true, Philippa. Mr. Deverill 
asked me to-day if I would speak to you, and 
he is coming to-morrow night for your answer,” 
said Craven, desperately. “Here we are.” 

He was thankful that they had reached the 
station, thankful that the bustle there prevented 
further speech, and that the carriage was full. 
He scarcely dared look at Philippa, but once 
casting a glance in her direction, he saw that 
the flush upon her cheek remained. A neighbor 
walked with them to the very door of their house 
in Clapton Road, when Philippa, who had never 
uttered a word, bade him a hurried good-night. 
Mrs. Craven, who listened always for the creak- 
ing swing of the garden gate, ran as usual to 
open the door and welcome them home. To her 
no small amazement and dismay Philippa, the 
moment she saw her mother’s sweet face, burst 
into tears. 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER, 


33 


CHAPTER V. 

Philippa did not go to business next day. 
After a sleepless night she fell into a deep slum- 
ber in the early morning, from which her mother 
did not wake her till eleven o’clock, when she 
entered Ihe room with a small breakfast-tray. 
When she drew" up the blind, the sun shining 
with most unusual brilliance after a November 
storm, streamed into the room and fell across 
Philippa’s face, causing her to awake with a 
start. 

“Why, mother, it is quite light. What o’clock 
is it? It is not Sunday, is it? And why do you 
bring me breakfast?” she asked confusedly, get- 
ting upon her elbow. 

“No, my dear, it is not Sunday. I heard you 
walking about in the night, and I did not let 
Anna awake you, that is all.” 

“And has father gone?” 

“Yes, my love, it is eleven o’clock. When 


34 


THE ANSWER TO 


you have taken this you will be able to get up, 
feeling rested, I am sure.” 

The careful mother, in whom were visible 
some signs of mental agitation, put a dressing- 
jacket round her daughter’s shoulders, and, hav- 
ing placed the tray before her, sat down, on the 
edge of the bed. 

Philippa pushed back her dark hair from her 
brow, took a drink from her tea- cup, and then 
looked at her mother’s careworn face with a 
faint, inexpressibly sweet smile. 

< ‘It has to be decided to-day, mother, before 
six o’clock. I think my mind is almost made 
up.” 

“Not to have him, I hope, my love. Yonr 
father and I hope that will be your decision.” 

Philippa crumbled a piece of toast in her fin- 
gers, and kept her eyes on her plate. 

“It would mean so much, mother dear— ease 
for you and daddy, Oxford for Stansfield’, and 
ever so many things.” 

“And what for you, dear? that is more impor- 
tant than any or all of these.” 

“The situation interests me, It is so full of pos- 
sibility,” said Philippa, musingly. “I have al- 
ways felt, mother, that my future would not be 
commonplace. What daddy has told me about 
Miss Deverill has interested me very much.” 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


35 


“No doubt, but the other matter; your rela- 
tions with Mr. Deverill are of infinite^ more 
importance. Think of it, dear, to live with him 
as your husband, as I have lived with your father 
all these years. It is a relation requiring trust, 
and patience, and love— above all, love. It is 
impossible you can love Mr. Deverill.” 

“I don’t; but I respect him; and I think there 
is a soft side to him. I have made up my mind 
to marry him.” 

Looking at Philippa’s face, Mrs. Craven imag- 
ined it changed ; that its girlishness had gone ; 
that the resolution of womanhood was there. 
She sighed. We do not like to lose our chil- 
dren thus, to wake up one day finding we have 
to meet them on the common platform of man- 
hood or womanhood; that they are no longer 
the little ones over whom we have watched and 
prayed. 

“Experiments are always risky, Philippa — in 
matrimony especially so ; in fact, they nearly al- 
ways turn out disastrously. It is an estate re- 
quiring many solid guarantees. I cannot see 
that you have much guarantee of happiness as 
the wife of Mr. Deverill.” 

“I hope you will be mistaken, mother. He 
has always been unhappy, disappointed in his 
home life; such experiences warp the best nat- 


36 


THE ANSWER TO 


ures. It is just possible 1 may be able to bring 
all that is best in him to the surface ; anyhow, I 
shall try.” 

Mrs. Craven looked at her daughter perplexed- 
ly, feeling that she did not quite understand her. 
Simple-minded and true-hearted herself, she pre- 
ferred a path in life offering fewer complications. 
She wondered at Philippa’s calm weighing of 
possibilities, and she did not quite like it, 

“Then your mind is quite made up to accept 
Mr. Deverill?” 

“I think so, mother; but all will depend on 
the interview this evening,” replied. Philippa, 
calmly. 

‘ ‘ And what has led you to make this decision 
so calmly and quickly?” inquired the mother, 
anxiously. 

Philippa lifted her frank, serious eyes to her 
mother’s face. 

“Mother dear, I don’t know, but I do not feel 
any hesitation. I even feel as if the decision 
had been made for me. I am not in the least 
unhappy, and it will mean a great deal to us 
all.” 

“It is not wealth and position that have 
tempted you, dear? Remember these are mere 
baubles powerless to buy happiness or peace of 
mind.” 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER 


37 


“It is not that, mother, I can truthfully say; 
only I feel that my destiny has come to me — 
that is all,” replied Philippa. “Now I must get 
up. This is most unheard-of indulgence for me. ’ ’ 

Having satisfied her conscience by giving her 
daughter her sincere advice, and feeling that she 
had been gently set aside, Mrs. Craven began to 
look at the other side of the picture, upon which 
she had not as yet permitted herself to dwell. 
She pictured her daughter the mistress of Mr. 
Deverill’s splendid home ; and of all the advan- 
tages inseparable from such a position. And 
she went about her commonplace duties that 
day like a woman in a dream. As the day 
wore on the sunshine departed, and the rain be- 
gan to fall fine and still from a gray sky unre- 
lieved by any ray of brightness. About four 
o’clock Philippa put on an old cloak and felt 
hat, and went down to the river-side, to a little 
boathouse kept by an old man who had two punts 
for hire. He had lived by the Lea all his days, 
and had seen the monotonous London suburb 
grow up on the banks of the river, and had 
many moral reflections to make upon these mani- 
fold changes. He had taught Philippa to row, 
and was wont to tell of her skill with pride, and 
to point her out of an evening to sundry amateurs 
whose attempts tried him sorely. Philippa and 


38 


THE ANSWER TO 


he had many talks, but that night she simply 
asked for the boat and made no remark. And 
as he watched her pull up stream with the long, 
graceful, steady sweep which was his pride, he 
wondered what had brought such an unusual 
shadow on her face. She stayed on the water 
for two hours, and went home drenched, to be 
met at the door by Anna, in a state of great ex^- 
citement because Mr. Beverill had come home 
with Mr. Craven. 

“And we’re waiting tea for you, Phil, and 
mother’s ever so vexed with you.” 

“Tell them not to wait, and that I’ll be down 
in ten minutes,” replied Philippa, calmly, as she 
went into the kitchen to remove her dripping 
garments. 

When she entered the sitting-room she looked 
her loveliest. The fresh air, the cool rain, the 
exertion with the oars had brought the fine rich 
red to her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled with 
light. She wore her blue serge office gown, but 
with a white silk front — a simple costume which 
became her well. She did not look in the least 
embarrassed as she entered, apologizing to her 
mother for her delay. 

She shook hands frankly with Mr. Deverill, 
coloring a little as she did so; then sat down and 
told them where she had been. 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


39 


Mr. Deverill regarded her with admiration he 
made no attempt to conceal. On the faces of her 
parents was visible a furtive anxiety not un- 
mixed with wonder. 

All at once Philippa, whom they had regarded 
as a simple girl, had grown into a woman, and 
seemed to have drifted beyond their ken. Hus- 
band and wife exchanged glances, and there was 
a certain wistfulness in their eyes. Mrs. Craven 
put her hand under the tablecloth and patted her 
husband’s knee — a wifely touch which said a 
great deal. 


40 


THE ANSWER TO 


CHAPTER VI. 

Mr. Beverill was not at his ease, nor were 
Mr. and Mrs. Craven. Stansfield was at the 
table also; he seemed full of wonder, but finding 
Mr. Beverill disposed to be affable, he spoke out 
with some frankness of his own ambitions. He 
had no idea of the import or significance of the 
great man’s visit, but it did not look like disas- 
ter. Philippa seemed quite at her ease. She 
and Stansfield kept the conversation from flag- 
ging. After tea Mr. Craven took Mr. Beverill 
to the drawing-room, and when he had remained 
some time there, Mrs. Craven returned for 
Philippa. 

“Mr. Beverill would like to speak to you now, 
dear,” said the little woman, and immediately 
burst into nervous tears. Philippa grew a little 
white, and hurried from the room. In the hall 
she came upon her father waiting for her; he. 
too, appeared very nervous and agitated. 

“Your mother has told us your decision. My 


41 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 

dear, my dear, think well of it; it is a woman’s 
great step in life. Remember, no one is forcing 
you to this, and weigh the matter well.” 

“I have done so, father, and I am not afraid,” 
Philippa answered quietly, and without a tremor 
opened the drawing-room door. Mr. Deverill 
was standing before the fireplace. In that small 
room his presence seemed even more imposing 
than usual, but Philippa was not overawed by it. 
She thought his face kindly as well as handsome, 
but as she advanced into the room a curious 
faintness of the heart caught her, as her mother’s 
words of the morning recurred to her mind. Yes, 
it was a risky experiment. 

Mr. Deverill looked at her keenly, marveling 
much at her self-possession. Perhaps he wished 
it a little less marked. 

“I have had a long talk with your father and 
mother, Miss Craven, and I am relieved and glad 
to hear that you do not think my offer absurd, 
that you are willing to regard it favorably.” 

“Yes,” replied Philippa, simply, “I am.” 

They were silent a little, both standing ; Phi- 
lippa with her eyes on the music open on the 
piano. She was the first to break, the silence. 

“I hope we understand each other, Mr. Dev- 
erill,” she began, in a low, rather faltering 
voice. “You do me the honor to ask me to be 


42 


THE ANSWER TO 


your wife, because you wish a suitable compan- 
ion for your daughter.” 

This plea, falling so simply from the girl’s lips, 
struck Mr. Deverill in all its absurdity. 

“That is one of the reasons, Miss Craven; but 
there are many others. I am, and have been 
these many years, a lonely man. I, too, wish a 
companion who can share my interests in life.” 

“I wonder that you have thought of me. I 
have had no preparation for such a life,” said 
Philippa, quietly. 

“It needs no preparation; it is a question of 
sympathy and kindness of heart.” 

“I will do my best,” replied Philippa. “Put 
I am sure to make many mistakes. You will 
not be too hard on me, Mr. Deverill.” 

“God forbid that I should be hard on you, my 
dear,” said Mr. Deverill, moved by her manner 
and her look. “1 wish you to believe that I am 
so grateful for your acceptance of me, knowing 
well that youth and such attractiveness as yours 
looks rightly for such things as I don’t possess. 
But I shall do my utmost to make you happy.” 

‘ 4 Thank you. I trust I also shall do my duty, ’ 9 
was the girl’s quick reply. “And as we do not 
expect too much, and there has been no talk of 
affection between us, perhaps we shall live very 
comfortably together.” 


1 HAVE HAD NO PREPARATION FOR SUCH A LIFE 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER, 


43 



# 



44 


THE ANSWER TO 


This calm summing up of the situation, put- 
ting it upon the most commonplace and prosaic 
level, somehow stirred a vague irritation in the 
mind of Mr. Deverill. She was very self-pos- 
sessed, not at all agitated evidently by the un- 
usual nature of the interview. Suddenly she 
changed the subject into another groove. 

“ You will make it easier for them here, Mr. 
Deverill,” she said, with a slight wistfulness, 
“and if possible help Stansfield to the career he 
most desires and is so fitted for. I shall be very 
grateful if you will.” 

“You shall dq it, my dear, when you are my 
wife. You will have ample means at your dis- 
posal. 1 have told your father what settlements 
I shall make.” 

“Thank you; and your daughter, will she be 
pleased to receive me?” 

“I have not yet told her. She shall not be 
allowed to make you unhappy, Philippa. I prom- 
ise you that.” 

“Oh, I was not thinking of my own happiness, 
but of hers. We are only quite happy, I think, 
when we are children, before care has any mean- 
ing for us. I hope your children will not resent 
my coming. Perhaps if I could see them first it 
might be better.” 

Mr. Deverill took a turn across the floor— sure 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


45 


token of perplexity. The thought of his boy and 
girl, rebellious, undisciplined creatures, troubled 
him more and more. He had seen enough in the . 
two hours he had spent in that humble suburban 
home to be aware that discord was unknown; 
and that the family lived together in singular 
unity and affection. When he thought of his 
own daughter, whose outbursts of ungovernable 
temper swept the household like a withering 
wind, he doubted the wisdom of his decision. 
It was now too late to stand back, even had he 
wished to do so. But he did not; nay, it had 
now become a matter of more personal moment 
to him, and he felt his pulses stirring his heart — 
moved by a strange yearning as he looked upon 
the sweet, true face of his promised wife. His 
promised wife ! and yet how far away she 
seemed from him, almost like a stranger. She 
was neither humble, grateful, nor suppliant to 
him, who had come in the role of benefactor. 
She evidently regarded her own gifts as equal or 
superior to his, which, of course, caused them to 
rise in his estimation. After all, the world will 
generally take us at our own valuation. 

4 4 You will not keep me waiting very long, 
Philippa,” he said, suddenly. 44 1 hope you will 
marry me soon, and let me take you abroad for 
Christmas.” 


46 


THE ANSWER TO 


“Christmas! that is very soon, only five 
weeks, ’ 9 said Philippa. 

“Yes; but why wait? The lady with whom 
my daughter now is wishes to travel herself, and 
would like me to take Alicia home soon. I do 
not wish to bring her till you are there. It will 
be better that the servants should be introduced 
to one mistress only . 9 9 

“How many servants are there?’ ’ 

“Five; and my own man. But we may re- 
quire more. Of course, I have lived quietly for 
years. They are good servants, who have been 
with me some time, but you can, of course, make 
what changes you like.” 

“I am sure I shall not wish to make any. But 
1 have had no experience in the management of 
servants. We have not had one since my sister 
and I grew up.” 

“Nevertheless, I am quite sure you will make 
a wise and competent mistress.” 

“Why do you think so?” asked Philippa, with 
a slight smile. 

“Because you can do everything well You 
are more competent than most.” 

‘ ‘ I hope you will not find yourself mistaken in 
this; it is better not to expect too much,” said 
Philippa. “But I shall do my best.” 

Silence fell upon them again, and for the first 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


47 


time a strange nervous feeling oppressed the 
girl. 

‘ 4 Shall we go back to the dining-room now, 
Mr. De.verill ? ’ ’ she asked. “That is, if you have 
no more to say to_ me.” 

“There is nothing more to say, at present, if 
you have agreed to marry me next month.” 

“We must see what father and mother think. 
It seems very hurried.” 

“But there is nothing to wait for,” he urged. 

“Very well; let it be as you wish, if father 
and mother are willing, and I hope I shall not 
disappoint you . 5 ’ 

“That is impossible. It shall be my endeavor 
to see you are not disappointed,” said Mr. Dev- 
erill, warmly. 

He took a step nearer to her as she turned to 
the door. 

“Will you kiss me, my dear, as you are so 
soon to be my wife?” 

Philippa flushed painfully, and her lips quiv- 
ered. 

“If you please not yet,” she said, falteringly, 
and with the wistfulness of a child. “Let us go 
back to the dining-room.” 


48 


THE ANSWER TO 


CHAPTER VII. 

It had been snowing all day. A dreary north 
wind swept across the sodden Essex marshes, 
gathering a bleaker chill as it roiled down to the 
sea. The snow, beautifier of most landscapes, 
did not much improve the dull, Hat reaches of 
the river, as it rolled swiftly down east, past 
Tilbury Dock and onward to the sea. Further 
inland, where the ground began to undulate, and 
to show patches of woodland here and there, it 
lay soft and pure, hanging lightly on the bare 
boughs, clothing their nakedness with loveliness 
white and wonderful. Some who know Essex 
well have somehow in their pilgrimages man- 
aged to miss Wenleigh. It is a little off the 
beaten track, and only of late years became con- 
nected with a railway line. When Mr. Deverill, 
head pf the great house of Deverill, first bought 
Wenleigh Manor he had to drive every morning 


A CHKISTMAS PRAYER. 


4:9 


over four miles of open country to the junction 
on the Southend line. It was a remote place, 
and at the time of the purchase had commended 
itself to him for that very reason. He bought it 
for a purpose, and after that failed he continued 
to reside there because he had become attached 
to the place. It was a lovely spot, a quaint, old, 
red Elizabethan house embowered among trees, 
but set upon a little hill commanding a sweep 
of open country, and on clear days the whole 
breadth of the river with its many travelers, 
homeward and outward bound. A noble avenue 
led up uO the imposing front, and the turf under 
the spreading trees was soft and green and 
smooth beneath the snow which now lay or? 
it so spotlessly. A very old quaint village, 
which had in bygone days owned allegiance to 
the Squires of Wenleigh, could be seen down in 
the hollow, the square, ivy-covered tower of the 
church standing out solemnly against the sky. 
In the church were many tablets to the memory 
of the Leighs of Wenleigh — not a man, woman, 
or child of the old name was left. 

Old residents in W enleigh, who still cherished 
the memory of bygone times, shook their heads, 
and were a little sorrowful when the city mag- 
nate bought the manor, and professed not to be 
surprised at the domestic scandals which, in 


50 


THE ANSWER TO 


spite of much precaution, found their way to 
the village, and became public gossip. Of late 
years, since the death of the beautiful, but frail 
mistress of Wenleigh, a silence as of the grave 
had settled down upon the place. The children 
gone, Mr. Deverill abode a solitary and misera- 
ble ~ '.an, haunted by the ghosts of the past and 
the anxieties of the future. 

The W enleigh folks looked forward to the time 
when Mr. Deverill’s son and daughter, having 
finished their education, should return to the 
manor and inaugurate a new era, little dream- 
ing that their -father dreaded that day and 
wished it far away. Suddenly his second mar- 
riage came upon them like a thunderbolt, awak- 
ening long dormant interest in the great house 
and its inmates. 

Toward the close of that bleak January day 
Mr. Deverill’s son and daughter were together 
in the drawing-room of Wenleigh Manor. It 
was a great room, richly decorated and hand- 
somely furnished, though lacking somewhat in 
those lighter touches with which a finer taste 
knows how to relieve the heavy effects of too 
much upholstery. It had two huge fireplaces, 
both alight with blazing logs, and the only light 
in the room — the somber shadows cast by the 
dancing flames were not out of keeping. They 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


51 


were in accord, beyond a doubt, with the feel- 
ings and attitude of these two young people, 
both in a bitter and rebellious frame of mind. 
The girl, a long willowy creature, all litheness 
and grace, lay upon a couch, with her hrms 
across her head, her eyes looking hard and 
brilliant, her dainty red mouth set in defiant 
bitterness. She wore a black skirt of lace, 
adorned with ribbons, and a yellow silk blouse, 
which became her dark skin to perfection. A 
belt of filigree silver confined her slender waist, 
and her beautifully rounded wrists were adorned 
with many bangles. Her dark hair was ar- 
ranged carelessly and was very soft and fluffy 
about her face ; her whole appearance was strik- 
ing, and she looked old for her years. In one of 
the windows, with his hands idly thrust into his 
pockets, stood her brother Wingate, his dark 
brows bent, his sullen mouth wearing its dark- 
est, most sullen look. He was handsome, too; 
they were a pair, so far as outward appearance 
went, of whom any father might have been 
proud. 

“What o’clock is it, Win?” inquired the girl, 
with a lazy yawn. “Isn’t it nearly tea-time? 
We’ll have it up at the usual time. I don’t 
suppose we are expected to wait for them. I’m 
not going to anyhow. Ring the bell.” 


52 


THE ANSWER TO 


“Ring it yourself,” he replied, rudely. “That 
is, if you think you’d better. It’s your last shot 
anyhow, so you’d better take advantage of it.” 
The girl’s red, full lip curled slightly, and she 
tossed her book on the floor. 

“My last shot is it? Well, we’ll see. I’ve 
not suffered martyrdom with that old Cambridge 
cat for three years to be set aside like this. I’m 
going to do exactly as I like, and have a good 
time too, as Mrs. Martin Deverill will presently 
see.” 

“It’ll be rather interesting, watching the 
fray; the Kilkenny cats are nothing to it,” 
said Wingate, lazily. “7 don’t mind it now I 
come to think of it, and Hawes says she’s aw- 
fully good-looking. ” 

“Oh, 1 know the style; there’s two things she 
can be— either cheeky and upsetting, or shy and 
overwhelmed with everything, as those sort of 
people usually are when introduced into a sphere 
above them. I flatter myself I know how to 
deal with them both. I mean to be mistress of 
the situation, Win.” 

Wingate Deverill turned round and regarded 
his sister with a species of lazy admiration. 

“You speak like seventy instead of seventeen, 
Alicia, ’pon my word you do : and I don’t envy 
Mrs. D. She won’t lie on a bed of roses.” 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


53 


“She doesn’t deserve to, having usurped my 
place so shamefully, ’ ’ said Alicia. ‘ ‘ But I’ll lead 
her a dance, see if I don’t, and papa, too, he de- 
serves to be punished for the sneaking way he 
has behaved ; too cowardly to tell us, but send- 
ing Hawes down. I’ll let him see what I think 
of his conduct, see if 1 don’t.” 

It was not a dutiful speech, but Mr. Deverill 
had long since ceased to expect dutiful conduct 
in the children -whom his frail wife had left 
as a legacy. In his treatment of them he had 
somehow missed the way, and had failed to in- 
spire them either with respect or affection for 
him. Although a man of commanding genius 
in business, he could not cope with the* simplest 
domestic problem, and this problem, the welfare 
and the future of his children, was by no means 
simple. It was because he felt himself unable 
to cope with it that he had made up his mind to 
marry again. Although his first matrimonial 
experiment had been a disastrous failure, he had 
retained his faith in womanhood, believing its 
influence boundless for good as for evil. 

“So the programme is mapped out,” said Win- 
gate, as he took a cigarette from his pocket and 
struck a match. “And we are mutually con- 
demned — I to an office-stool at Cornhill, you to 
domestic duties and the sewing of flannel petti- 


54 


THE ANSWER TO 


coats for the ungrateful Wenleigliites; a charm- 
ing prospect, truly, Alicia, eh?” 

“That’s your last cigarette in the drawing- 
room, I know,” she said, with a slight inscru- 
table smile, and, rising languidly to her feet, she 
gave the bell a tremendous peal. She was very 
tall, and her gown swept the floor, thus giving 
added height and slenderness to her figure. No 
one looking at Alicia Deverill could believe she 
was but seventeen; she hac> ' :lthe self-possession 
of seven-and-twenty, and nothing girlish in her 
look or manner. 

The parlor-maid, looking a trifle surprised, 
entered the room with a lighted taper in her 
hand. 

“We don’t want lights, Wilson,” said the 
young lady, imperiously; “bring tea up at once, 
it’s nearly five.” 

“Please, miss, we thought you’d wait. The 
carriage has gone to the station, and will be here 
at five.” 

“ What has that to do with us? Bring tea at 
once, and tell Box I am very angry because it is 
late. You can light up now you are here.” 

The parlor-maid did so; and her face wore no 
pleasant look. Alicia Deverill has only been at 
home three days, but in that time has made her- 
self so obnoxious to the servants that had the 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER 


55 


new mistress not been expected they would have 
given notice. 

When the lamps were lighted Alicia opened 
the piano and began to play a noisy waltz, with 
a carefulness of execution and a certain touch 
which betrayed a correct musical taste. 

It drowned the voice of the moaning wind and 
the roll of carriage-wheels on the graveled ap- 
proach. Both were surprised when the door 
opened suddenly and their father with his new 
wife entered the room. 


56 


THE ANSWER TO 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The music came to a sudden stop, and Alicia 
sprang to her feet, and stood with her hand on 
the lid of the piano, her face turned to the 
door, flushed and defiant, her graceful head 
thrown back — a picture indeed. Wingate leaned 
up against a cabinet with his smoldering cigar- 
ette in one hand and the other thrust into his 
pocket. Mr. Deverill and his wife entered to- 
gether; he looking distinctly anxious, she en- 
tirely self-possessed and unconscious, Alicia 
never looked at her father in that supreme 
moment, her eyes being fixed on the figure 
by his side. 

As she took in every detail of the slight, lady- 
like figure in its exquisite attire, the unperturbed 
face with its sweetness and strength, the air of 
ladyhood, her heart sank — for there was quiet 
power and capability in all — and Alicia felt that 
her boasting had been premature. 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


57 


4 ‘These are my children, Philippa,” said Mr. 
Deverill. “Alicia, come and speak to my wife.” 

Alicia took no notice whatever ; then Wingate, 
ashamed, tossed his cigarette in the fire, and ad- 
vanced to his father’s wife. 

“How do you do? Beastly cold, isn’t it?” he 
said, in his characteristic style. “But here’s tea 
coming; that’ll warm you. How are you, dad?” 

If the greeting were a trifle brusque, it was 
kindly, and took the edge off Alicia’s insulting 
silence. Philippa smiled brightly and laid her 
hand in Wingate’s, lifting her clear eyes frankly 
to his face. 

“Thank you,” she said, and turned to say a 
word to Alicia, but Alicia had fled. 

“Don’t mind it, Philippa; she is only a child, ” 
whispered Mr. Deverill, nervously. 

Wingate saw Philippa smile back at him as 
she answered, calmly: 

“I don’t mind it in the least; she will talk to 
me by- and- by, I hope. I suppose I had better 
pour out tea. ” 

She took off her gloves, revealing to Wingate’s 
keenly observant eye white, well-shaped hands, 
the right bare, the other adorned by the wedding 
ring and one solitaire of the finest water. She 
sat down at the table as to the manner born, and 
looked again at Wingate. The sullenness had dis- 


58 


THE ANSWER TO 


appeared from liis face, leaving in its place an 
expression of the liveliest interest. 

“Now come and tell me how you like your tea, 
Wingate? have you a sweet tooth like your 
father?” 

Mr. D ever ill’s man entered the room with a 
note, and took one long, keen glance at the new 
mistress whose arrival had been variously antici- 
pated for some days. As he turned to go, his 
master, who knew his face well, observed a dis- 
tinct expression of satisfaction, almost amount- 
ing to relief, on it, and that simple fact caused 
his spirits to rise. The approval of Hawes meant 
a great deal. 

“You got my letter, I suppose, this morning, 
Wingate?” said Mr. Deverill to his son. 

“Yes, Alicia did; she’ll be all right soon. Did 
you have a cold journey down?” 

c ‘ Very ; the house looks warm and comfortable, 
doesn’t it, Philippa?” 

“It is the loveliest house I have ever been in,” 
replied Philippa, with ready appreciation, which 
pleased her husband well. “And 1 am so hun- 
gry, I am going to have a very good tea, which 
I hope you will share.” 

It was a natural and happy diversion which 
relieved the tension. Wingate, to his own sur- 
prise as well as his father’s, presently found him- 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


59 


self rendering assistance to his father’s young 
wife, and being rewarded by many grateful 
glances of those soft, dark, penetrating eyes. 

So the ordeal of introduction, so far as Win- 
gate was concerned, passed off most successfully, 

Philippa had now been the wife of Mr. Deverill 
for three weeks, which time they had spent in the 
Riviera, and her face certainly looked less care- 
worn and anxious than that misty morning when 
she had stood before the altar of the little Clap- 
ton Church and had taken her solemn vows upon 
her. She iooked bright and at her ease. It was 
characteristic of her not to be downcast about 
Alicia’s reception, for which, indeed, she had 
prepared herself. 

4 £ I had no idea that you had such a fine place, 
Martin,” she said, as she went upstairs by-and- 
by to her dressing-room. 4 4 Shall I be able to 
manage this great house? There is a great deal 
I shall have to set myself to learn.” 

Mr. Deverill smiled. 

“It will be child’s play to you, Philippa,” he 
said. 4 4 That does not concern me at all.” 

He followed her into the room and stood watch- 
ing her as she took off her hat, his face wearing 
a curious expression, admiration for his wife be- 
ing, however, plainly discernible. He had dur- 
ing these sunny weeks in the south come nearer 


60 


THE ANSWER TO 


being utterly happy than he had ever been in his 
life. There was none of the passion, nor the ab- 
solute dependence on each other of those who 
marry for love, neither had there been any pre- 
tense to it. They had entered upon their mar- 
ried life soberly, each with a purpose in view, 
and neither yet looked as if they had found it a 
matter for regret. 

4 4 1 need scarcely apologize for Alicia, my dear. 
I prepared you for it. ’ ’ 

4 4 You did; don’t worry about it. I shall try 
to win her, poor little sore heart. And she is a 
most lovely creature, Martin ; you did not tell me 
that.” 

44 I wish she were less attractive; she looks so 
exactly like what her mother was when I married 
her that 1 am consumed with anxiety. I am 
trusting to you to discover the bent of her mind 
and to foster its better impulses. All the same, 
I shall talk very seriously to her about her con- 
duct to-night.” 

Philippa bent over her open trunk a moment 
in silence. Presently, however, she looked at 
her husband, and there was a soft, beautiful flush 
on her cheek. 

4 4 If you are trusting so much to me where your 
daughter is concerned, will you leave her entirely 
to me, and let me begin to-night? 1 can under- 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


61 


stand so well how she feels. We must be very 
gentle with her just now.” 

“But she was so rude to you, Philippa. It 
would not be right to pass it over.” 

“I can survive that, and a great deal more, 
and Wingate made up for it. He was quite 
pleasant. Promise to leave Alicia entirely to 
me. Remember she is part of my experi- 
ment.” 

“What experiment?” he asked, with a touch 
of coldness. 

Philippa bit her lip. 

“I ought not to have let that slip; but you 
know we agreed that there should be no misun- 
derstanding between us. When mother talked 
to me about my marriage, pointing out its diffi- 
culties, I said it would be an experiment. I 
have always wanted a career ; and human beings 
are a great deal more interesting than typewrit- 
ing machines.” 

“Then I am part of the experiment, too, I sup- 
pose?” he said, with a slight smile which hid a 
felt disappointment. 

Philippa laughed a trifle nervously. 

“Well, yes; if you put it so, I suppose you 
are. But, then, 1 am only part of your experi- 
ment where your children are concerned. We 
did understand each other, didn’t we?” 


62 


THE ANSWER TO 


“I suppose we did; you are matter-of-fact, 
Philippa.” 

“It is better to be matter-of-fact that hypocriti- 
cal, surely,” she answered, quickly. “You give 
me certain things, which mean a great deal to 
me and to those I love. In return I do my ut 
most for you. I shall try to make your home 
happy and comfortable, Martin. I hope you will 
believe that, for indeed, I am very grateful to 
you. You have given me so much.” 

“Hush !” He raised his hand peremptorily to 
still her expressions of gratitude, which somehow 
fell distastefully on his ears. 

“Those you love,” he repeated. “There is a 
gulf fixed, Philippa. They and we stand on a 
different plane. 1 ’ 

Philippa flushed painfully, and as she turned 
to her unpacked trunk again her eyes were full 

of tears 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


63 


CHAPTER IX. 

Alicia did not come down to dinner. Nobody 
commented on her absence. Mr. Deverill was 
pleased to see that Wingate had made a careful 
toilet, and even felt a little grateful to him for 
his courtesy. There was pathos in that. Mr. 
Deverill was a great man and a stern man in the 
city; at home quite the reverse. We sometimes 
see such contrasts in the same character, and it 
is always an interesting study. No one meeting 
Mr. Deverill in the ordinary way of business 
would have believed him to be at heart sensitive 
and shrinking; nevertheless these were attributes 
of the inner man. 

When dinner was over, Mr. Deverill and his 
son remained for a little at table. Philippa went 
alone to the drawing-room, where Wilson brought 
her a cup of coffee. 

“Has Miss Deverill dined, do you know?” she 


64 


THE ANSWER TO 


inquired, looking* at the girl steadily. Wilson 
flushed a trifle confusedly, but answered at once. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“In her own room?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“Where, then?” 

“In the kitchen, ma’am. She has been down 
all the time dinner was being served, and had 
something as each course came down.” 

Philippa restrained her desire to laugh outright. 

“Where is she now?” 

“In her own room.” 

“Is Miss DeverilPs room on the same floor as 
mine?” 

“No, ma’am, higher up, next to the old school- 
room. Can I show it you?” 

“Not just now, thank you. Put a fire in my 
dressing-room, and when you have time take out 
my dresses, if you please.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Her mistress said no more, but the girl still 
lingered, till Philippa looked up at her with a 
pleasant, inquiring smile. 

“Please, ma’am, excuse me, but we are glad 
to see you here, and I trust will be able to suit 
you. We’ve been here a good while, most of us, 
and we like the master well.” 

“If you have been able to please him, you will 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


65 


suit me,” said Philippa, gently. “Thank you, 
Wilson, 1 hope we shall all be good friends.” 

These few kindly words, and the manner of 
their utterance, bound the girl’s heart to her from 
that moment. 

“She no lady, indeed!” was her comment in 
the kitchen ; “she’s a real lady every inch of her. 
Knows her place and ours, but got a heart. Poor 
dear thing, Pm sorry for her, that I am.” 

Philippa meditatively sipped her coffee, and 
then set down her empty cup. After taking a 
little restless turn through the spacious but pleas- 
ant, comfortable room, she went out to the land- 
ing, and began slowly to mount the stairs. She 
could hear the voices in the dining-room, and 
made haste to get out of sight lest Mr. Deverill 
should call her down. 

As she went up she took note of the rich, soft 
carpets, the fine engravings, and the statuary on 
the staircase, and sighed a little to think of the 
money that had been expended on one house, 
while so many in the world suffered from sordid 
care. It was a natural thought in one who had 
never known the luxury of spending a penny on 
her own amusement or pleasure, and it was not 
accompanied by any elation because all upon 
which her eyes now dwelt belonged to her. Her 
nature was singularly adaptive; Mr. Deverill 


66 


THE ANSWER TO 


had wondered often at her self-possession, and 
in the grand continental hotels where their 
honeymoon had been spent, she accepted every- 
thing as a matter of course. Graver subjects 
than her new possessions, beautiful though they 
were, occupied her as she sought for Alicia’s 
room. She had a duty to fulfill — to be kind and 
useful to her husband’s daughter was part of her 
contract. She could not rest until she had made 
a beginning. She looked into the old school- 
room first— a large, pleasant room, somewhat 
shabby, it is true, but looking comfortable and 
homelike. Then she knocked at Alicia’s room. 
Receiving no answer, she opened the door and 
entered, closing it again behind her. Her heart 
beat a little as she saw the girl’s figure reclining 
in a big, wide basket-chair, with her feet on the 
fender. 

“Is that my coffee, Wilson? Take it down 
again, and bring tea. I had some in the after- 
noon, and 1 feel like it now, and some muffins 
hot, toasted, and crisp. Are they done dinner?” 

She turned her head, and instead of Wilson 
with the tray there stood her father’s wife in an 
evening gown of soft, black satin, looking so 
strikingly sweet that Alicia was startled. 

A dark flush sprang to her olive cheek, and 
she gave her feet an impatient stamp. 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


67 

“What do you want, Mrs. Deverill? This is 
my room, where I come to be alone. 1 will not 
interfere with you, but please to understand that 
in this corner of the house I will have no 
intruders.” 

The words were rude, the manner more so, but 
Philippa did not flinch. 

“I have come to have a little talk with you, 
Alicia; the sooner we get it over the better.” 

“I won’t talk to you,” cried the girl, rebell- 
iously. “I hate you, and I think it perfectly 
disgraceful of you to have inveigled papa into a 
marriage so unsuitable. Why, you don’t look 
any older than me.” 

“I am four-and-twenty, ” replied Philippa, 
quietly. “We will leave discussion of my mar* 
riage out of the question, if you please, Alicia, 
and—” 

“Do not call me Alicia; I am Miss Deverill to 
strangers.” 

“Well, Miss Deverill, then,” said Philippa, 
with a little smile. She advanced to the fire- 
place, and stood there with her bare, rounded 
arm resting on the mantel, and looked down on 
the girl who had again thrown herself in her 
chair and opened ^ her book. The title Philippa 
could read, “Glimpses of the Stage.” 

“Do you want to know what I’m reading? 


68 


THE ANSWER TO 


You may look at it if you like. I’m learning 
what I can from it before I begin my career. I 
mean to have a career like mamma.” 

“God forbid!” fell involuntarily from Phi- 
lippa’s lips, the facts of that wasted and mel- 
ancholy life, as related to her by her husband, 
being still fresh in her mind. 

“Why do you say, ‘God forbid’?” inquired 
Alicia, with a faintly mocking smile, which 
changed her girlish look to that of a woman of 
the world. “Mamma had a very jolly time of 
it till she married papa. Why, half the aristoc- 
racy were in love with her; such presents she 
had and such gayety — water-parties on the river, 
drives to Richmond on Sunday, and then the 
theater at night — that’s life, if you like. I 
should have killed myself long ago if I had not 
had that to look forward to.” 

Philippa looked, as she felt, inexpressibly 
shocked. To hear such views of life from the 
lips of a mere girl seemed terrible, and it came 
home to Philippa in a moment that she had had 
no idea of the magnitude of the task she had 
undertaken. This bright, exquisite creature, old 
before her time, steeped to the lips in worldly 
wisdom before she was out of her teens, the vic- 
tim of a thousand inherited tendencies to way- 
wardness, perhaps even to sin, presented a prob- 


I AM MISS DEVERILL TO STRANGERS 



V 



70 


THE ANSWER TO 


lem requiring patience, loving - kindness, rare 
wisdom, to deal with. 

Well might Philippa ask herself whether she 
possessed any of the qualities required, whether 
she could even hope to influence a being already 
so matured in judgment, so positive in her opin- 
ion, so self-reliant and composed. 

“The greatest folly of mamma’s life was her 
marriage, and I don’t blame her for going back 
to the stage. Why, life here would kill any- 
body. If I did not hate you so much, I should 
be sorry for you.” 

She looked straight at Philippa, but her smile 
provoked none on the elder girl’s grave lips. 

“Does your father know of your ambition?” 
she inquired, pointing to the book. 

“If he doesn’t, he soon will. Wingate knows; 
not a bad old chap is Wingate, only a bit soft — 
wants to see life, I guess, only he hasn’t any 
pluck. How horrified you look, Mrs. Deverill. 
I said I wouldn’t talk to you, and I have done it 
all the same. While I’m at it I may as well say 
all I’ve got to say. Perhaps if we agree to leave 
each other alone we needn’t fight like the Kil- 
kenny cats, as Win said we should. Let’s make 
a bargain, if you like. You don’t interfere with 
me, and I won’t with you. You’re not my sort, 
of course; 1 never expected you would be; but 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


71 


you look rather kind. Are you going to leave 
me alone, or are you not?” 

" Pm not!” 

Alicia looked momentarily surprised and taken 
aback. She had not expected such a promptly 
decisive reply. 

4 4 Oh, you’ll not. Well, then, get out of here.” 

4 4 No,” answered Philippa, calmly, 44 1 won’t.” 

She stooped down, and before Alicia could 
prevent her, kissed her on the lips. 


72 


THE ANSWER TO 


CHAPTER X, 

That night Philippa could not sleep. She 
felt strangely excited, as was to be expected, 
having gone through so much. Alicia chiefly 
occupied her thoughts. She could not get the 
girl’s brilliant beauty, her wild eyes, and above 
all her words, out of her mind. They haunted 
her even in her dreams. No one could say 
Alicia Deverill was uninteresting or common- 
place. The interest she had awakened in Phi- 
lippa’s mind was of the painful kind, however, 
tinged with anxiety and dread. There was not 
much chance of a placid or monotonous existence 
in the vicinity of Mr. Deverill’s daughter; and if 
Philippa had longed for a sphere in life, she had 
now obtained one likely to be varied by many 
surprises, in which the unexpected was the like- 
liest to happen always. It was a great change 
for the girl reared in the happy, placid suburban 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


73 


home, with its narrow outlook, its utter absence 
of event. As yet Mr. Deverill’s children, whom 
she had taken in charge, were more interesting 
to Mr. Deverill’s wife than himself. 

“You look very worried, my dear,” he ob- 
served as she • was dressing next morning. 
“Don’t let Alicia worry you. I told you she 
should not be allowed to do so. If there is a 
repetition of last night’s scene I shall make some 
other arrangement.” 

“I am worried about her, but not in the way 
you think,” Philippa replied. “Promise me 
that you will say nothing to her. In her pres- 
ent mood harsh words would only harden. 
Won’t you leave her to me?” 

Mr. Deverill looked distinctly relieved. 

“Very gladly, my dear, if you think it best, 
but I will not have you vexed or unhappy, re- 
member that.” 

Philippa faintly smiled, and glanced through 
the window upon the wintry landscape, watch- 
ing a robin, bright-eyed and scarlet-breasted, 
hopping on the whitened boughs of a holly tree : 
she thought, what she did not say, that perhaps 
Alicia might have been less difficult to deal with 
now had she had different guidance in her earlier 
years. Dreading the development of a way- 
ward nature, Mr. Deverill had committed the 


74 


THE ANSWER TO 


mistake of placing lier under the stern control of 
a kinswoman of his own — a hard, narrow, un- 
sympathetic person, whose idea of child-rearing 
was to keep the child in a state of complete sub- 
jection. She had exacted an outward semblance 
of submission from Alicia, and had boasted of 
her success, not dreaming that she had only 
stemmed the torrent, and forcing it back to the 
depths, left it there, a seething whirlpool ready 
to overflow at any moment. Alicia came down 
to breakfast, and though civil was very quiet. 
At nine o’clock the brougham came round to the 
door and took Mr. Deverill and Wingate to the 
station. Philippa and Alicia were left with a 
whole, long day before them to improve each 
other’s acquaintance. 

Philippa stood at the breakfast-room window 
till the brougham was out of sight, then she 
turned cheerfully to Alicia, who was toasting 
her toes at the fire. 

“Now we have to amuse each other. Will 
you show me over the house, Alicia, and then 
take a walk with me to the village?” 

Alicia yawned and threw her arms above her 
head. 

“1 can show you round the house, if you like 
now; but I can’t go for a walk with you, be- 
cause I am going to Southend.” 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


75 


“To Southend,” repeated Philippa. “Do you 
go by train?” 

“No, Til drive the cart, and I’m going to start 
at eleven.” 

“Won’t you take me, Alicia?” 

“Not to-day.” 

She refused quite coolly, and without a word 
of apology or explanation. 

Philippa looked rather put out. “How far is 
it?” 

“Five miles and a half.” 

“That is a long drive, and it is bitterly cold. 
Have you anything particular to do? Couldn’t 
you. send one of the men?” 

“No.” 

Nothing could be more unpromising than 
Alicia’s monosyllabic answers. 

“Did your father know you were going?” 

“No. If you’ve done asking questions, Mrs. 
Deverill, I’ll show you the house,” said Alicia, 
as she languidly rose. She wore a very neat 
gown of red serge, admirably becoming to her 
dark beauty; her hair was very fantastically 
dressed in a style too old for her. But it was 
Alicia’s aim and desire, at present, to look older 
than her years. 

4 4 Then you are not going to be friendly with 
me, Alicia?” 


76 


THE ANSWER TO 


“Friendly enough, as I told you last night, if 
you let me alone. But if you’re going to spy on 
me it’ll be war to the knife. I’ll go where I like, 
as I have always done here, and the cart’s mine; 
papa gave it me on my last birthday. If you 
want to drive out there’s the carriage and a dog- 
cart, too ; and you are the mistress here now. I 
won’t forget it.” 

Alicia spoke calmly and deliberately, and 
though her words were distinctly rude, her 
manner was not offensive. Philippa perceived 
that she was trying to make their relative posi- 
tions clear, and though she felt a little soreness 
of heart, accepted the situation with great good- 
humor. It was the best — nay, the only course 
to pursue in the circumstances. 

“My mother and my little sister Lucy are com- 
ing down this afternoon, Alicia, in time for lunch. 
Will you be here?” 

“No. So you have a mother? Is she nice?” 

Philippa’s eyes suddenly overflowed, and 'she 
made no other answer. 

“Look here, if you were so fond of them all 
why did you marry my father? You won’t have 
a good time with him. My mother never had. 
He thinks women should stay at home and see 
nothing; but perhaps you like that sort of 
thing?” 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


77 


“X don’t, but 1 think you know very little of 
your father. We saw a great deal abroad.” 

“But what do you call seeing things? In 
Paris did you go to all those dear little cafes 
chantants on the Champs Elysees, and did he 
take you to Monte Carlo, and let you stake a 
good bit? Mamma used to tell me all about all 
these things, and I mean to see them for myself 
some day. ’ ’ 

“How old were you when your mother 
died?” 

“I was twelve, but she was away from here. * 
She died in London. I saw her there sometimes, 
but papa did not know. I have a grudge against 
him. He took mamma away from everything 
that made life worth living, and shut her up in 
this jail; then when she rebelled and went back 
to those who loved her and were kind to her, he 
forbade her name to be mentioned here.” 

Philippa remained silent. It was an extremely 
delicate and painful theme, and to hear it so 
coolly discussed by such a young girl gave her 
something of a shock. 

“When I marry it won’t be an old man with 
horrid big children like Win and me,” was her 
next delightful remark. “I’ll better my condi- 
tion or I won’t change it.” 

“You are too young to be talking and thinking 


78 


THE ANSWER TO 


of such things, Alicia,” said Philippa, with a 
sigh. 

“Do you think so? Well, you see it’s a mat- 
ter of opinion. But marriage will be my last 
resource. I’ve got some other irons in the fire 
first. We’ll see; we needn’t go on talking here 
all the morning. If you want to see the house, 
let’s go.” 

The next hour was not unpleasant to Philippa ; 
for, having had it out with her step-mother, Alicia 
was very affable and condescended to talk a good 
deal. There was something very attractive about 
the girl, a fascination in the changing beauty of 
her eyes and in her constantly varying mood 
which Philippa felt. 

“You’re not half a bad sort, and I’d ask you 
to go with me to Southend this morning if I 
could; we can go another day,” she said, when 
they came in at half-past ten from a tour 
of inspection outside. “ Now I must get 
ready. ’ ’ 

Philippa debated in her mind whether she 
should inquire what was Alicia’s business in 
Southend, but she decided to say nothing— in 
the circumstances a wise decision. 

She stood at the door and watched the girl 
drive away in her smart little pony cart, the 
very picture of youth and beauty ; and somehow 


79 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 

as she returned to the house there was a little 
ache at her heart. 

But within the next hour that was forgotten 
in the joy of welcoming to her beautiful new 
home the dear mother and little sister from the 
old home, which now seemed so far off and un- 
real that it might have happened only in a dream. 


80 


THE ANSWER TO 


CHAPTER XI. 

Very smartly did the little Norwegian pony 
trot into Southend. The road from Leigh ran 
parallel with the sea, and from its higher levels 
Alicia could catch a glimpse of the gray waters 
sullenly seething under the lowering sky ; but she 
regarded the prospect with but a languid inter- 
est. Her brows were knit, her face troubled, and 
occasionally a vague irritation found vent in the 
use of the whip, which sent the Norwegian off 
at a gallop. The crisp air, frost laden, made the 
color deepen in the girl’s face ; hers was the beauty 
in which richness of color plays a prominent part. 

As she neared the town the air became less bit- 
ing, though it lost a little of its freshness. The 
streets of Southend on a raw J anuary morning 
do not present a very lively picture, and Alicia 
in her smart cart excited some attention as she 
rattled down the High Street to the Royal Hotel, 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


81 


where she gave her turnout to a groom, and en- 
tered the house. 

“Can I see Madame Tressider?” she asked the 
sleepy -looking waiter in the hall. 

“I’ll inquire, miss; but she doesn’t rise early; 
it’s only noon now.” 

“She expects me. Please say Miss Deverill 
has come.” 

The waiter asked her to walk into the coffee- 
room, and there she was left to warm her chilled 
fingers by the cheerful fire for quite ten minutes. 

“Mrs. Tressider can see you now, miss,” said 
the man, coining back, and had Alicia been less 
absorbed, or had she possessed more knowledge 
of the world, she might have detected a shade of 
disrespect in his manner. But the girl was to- 
tally unconscious of it, and she followed him up- 
stairs with a heart beating rather fast, for was 
not that morning’s interview to decide her future 
— in a word, her career, of which she so often 
thought and sometimes proudly spoke, was about 
to begin. Any person with a moderate sense of 
the fitness of things would have seen little in the 
appearance of Madame Tressider to augur this 
brilliant future of which Alicia dreamed. She 
was a large, fat, comfortable - looking person, 
attired in an ample dressing-gown of a some- 
what startling hue and style; her hair, bright 


82 


THE ANSWER TO 


golden and elaborately frizzed, served to show 
up the ravages time and poor health had made 
in a face of which the gilded youth of London 
had been wont to rave. 

“Come and kiss me, child,’ ’ she said with lan- 
guid interest, as Alicia entered the room. “Mon 
Dieu ! how like the little one grows to her mother. 
I see the likeness more and more.” 

Madame was not French, but she had been 
reared in a convent school at Dinan, and still 
affected at times the French idiom, which Alicia 
thought charming and distinguished. 

Alicia advanced a little timidly and gave the 
required kiss, a trifle reluctantly it is true, for 
the girl was even then true to her better in- 
stincts, which often whispered doubts of Ma- 
dame’s sincerity and goodness. 

“What a color you have! it will make your 
fortune! Poor Nina never had it even in her 
best days; but come, tell me how goes it in the 
great manor house where my niece was shut up. 
Has the new wife come?” 

“Yes, last night, Madame,” replied Alicia, 
and volunteered no further information, for the 
grave, sweet, true face of her father’s /wife 
seemed to rise before her with a vague reproach. 

“Well, little one, what more? Tell me of the 
inevitable scene, which I shall so much enjoy. 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


83 


Did you keep your place, and make the parvenue 
to shrink?” 

“She is not a, parvenue, Madame. She is a 
lady, and a good woman.”* 

“Young?” 

“Yes; four-and-twenty . ” 

“Fine-looking?” 

“I think so.” 

Madame gave her shoulders an expressive 
shrug, and took a sip from a little liqueur glass 
on the table. 

“Ah, Mr. Deveriil has luck to marry two fine 
women. He must have some fascinating quali- 
ties you and I have not yet discovered. But, of 
course, he is rich. Well, and there is to be war?” 

“No, 1 don’t think so. Mrs. Deveriil is too 
much of a lady to fight, Madame. She will sim- 
ply put me in my place and keep me there.” 

How Philippa, nursing her secret awe of the 
high-spirited, wayward girl would have stared 
at these words. 

“Which the little one will not relish, eh?” 
said Madame, smacking her lips over her liqueur. 
“I sympathize with her, it is too hard; but there 
is a way out.” 

“Yes, Madame.” Alicia glanced a trifle wist- 
fully round the room. 

“Mr. Tressider is not here. I hoped to see 


84 


THE ANSWER TO 


him, that he would try my voice this morn- 
ing.” 

“He is not here. He and Victor came to see 
me on Sunday, but returned to town the same 
night ; I go to-morrow . 5 ’ 

Alicia looked disappointed. 

“Then nothing can be settled,” she said, 
rather despondently . 

“Everything is settled, if the little one agrees,” 
said Madame, cheerfully. “If she is not com- 
fortable in the great manor house, let her come 
to us. It is a simple menage, but she will be 
welcome to it for poor Nina’s sake.” 

Alicia’s face flushed. 

“Do you really mean it, Madame?” 

Madame nodded and smoothed the wrinkled 
folds of the dressing-gown with her large fair 
hands. 

“Then Tressider can try your voice, love, and 
give the necessary training as he has time.” 

Alicia’s eyes sparkled. 

“Oh, how delightful! But will you do this 
for nothing? Papa is rich, but I have no money. 
You know that I cannot pay anything.” 

“Not presently, but by-and-by, when you be- 
come famed as was your poor little mother, you 
will not forget those humble friends who did 
what they could.” 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


85 


“You need not say humble, Madame, when 
Mr. Tressider is a gentleman of so great position 
and influence. He can take whom he will on at 
the theater, and do just as he likes. He is not 
at all humble.” 

“Ah, well, his position he has earned. He 
has some influence, it is true, and he uses it so 
unselfishly that we are poor, poor always. I 
cannot even have the dresses I want. Well, 
then, when will you come?’ 5 

“Am I to tell papa?” 

Madame gave her shoulders an expressive 

shrug. 

“The little one can please herself, but do not 
let her forget his treatment of poor Nina.” 

“Do you mean, then, that I am to steal away 
from home.” 

Again Madame shrugged her shoulders, and 
gave a slightly indifferent laugh. 

“I suggest, I mean nothing, I simply say come 
when and how you please. But if you come, 
child, remember there must be no going back. 
It is a hard profession, offering prizes only to 
those who earn them.” 

“I am not afraid of work. Then I will come, 
Madame, any day I can get away.” 

Madame, with a nod, dismissed the subject. 
It was a matter of interest and moment to her, 


86 


THE ANSWER TO 


but it was part of her policy to show the girl 
that she was simply indiiferent. She changed 
the subject, but kept the talk skillfully in the 
groove likely to excite the girl’s imagination, 
and desire for excitement and praise. She made 
certain allusions to the brilliant successes to be 
attained on the V ariety stage, and showed the 
best side of the life, keeping the more sordid and 
dark side in the background. When Alicia left 
the hotel her brain was in a whirl, and it was 
well that she had a five mile drive through thinly 
falling snow, which helped to cool her down be- 
fore she reached home. Lunch was over, and 
Mrs. Deverill was with her guests in the draw- 
ing-room, but Alicia did not disturb them. She 
prowled down to the kitchen, got something to 
eat, and then retired to her own room to indulge 
in dreams of the brilliant future in store for her. 
When the tea-bell rang she went downstairs. 
Philippa glanced at her a trifle nervously as she 
entered the room, by no means certain what her 
demeanor would be. 

4 4 Mother, this is Alicia,” she said, gently; “I- 
hope you had a nice drive, dear, and did not feel 
the cold too much.” 

“No, no, thank you; how do you do?” said 
Alicia, rather nervously, avoiding the sweet, 
motherly eyes cf Mrs. Craven, as they sought 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


87 


her face. Then the little Lucy, a baby still, in 
spite of her years, came to her and stole her lit- 
tle hand in hers. 

“I like you, you are so pretty. Kiss me, 
please.” 

Alicia caught her up and held her cheek to 
hers. Philippa’s tears rose, and Mrs. Craven, 
nodding complacently to herself, asked for an- 
other cup of tea. 




88 


THE ANSWER TO 


CHAPTER XII. 

Mrs. Craven and Lucy were to remain all 
night; it was a delightful surprise when the 
brougham brought back from the station Mr. 
Craven as well as Mr. Deverill. The great man 
did nothing meanly or partially. He had mar- 
ried the daughter of the oldest clerk in his em- 
ployment, and he was not ashamed of the con- 
nection. Philippa’s face flushed with pleasure 
when her father entered, and she cast a quick, 
grateful glance at her husband that warmed his 
heart. 

“Well, my dear,” he said, very kindly, “I 
hope you have not had a dull day.” 

“Oh, no! Alicia was very kind, showing me 
about before she went to Southend, and then 
mother came. It was very kind of you to bring 
father down.” 

Mr. Deverill laid his hand on her shoulder and 
turned her round to him. She had dressed to 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


89 


please him in a black velvet gown cut squarely 
at the neck — a dress he had always admired. 
She looked very fair and young in it now, with 
that touch of nervous wistfulness in her look. 
She was only feeling her way, and a good deal 
devolved on her. 

“My dear,” he said, very gently, “why will 
you thank me for every trivial thing — for such 
things as are yours by right? Did you expect 
me to cut you oft* from your own people?” 

“Some of them— Stansfield and Anna — and 
perhaps mother — feared it a [little. I did not.” 

“I promised to make you happy if I could; 
that would be a poor beginning,” he said, and 
his voice was almost caressing in its tone. The 
dressing-room door was open, and Alicia, on her 
way to the drawing-room, saw her father’s atti- 
tude and the unusual kindness of his demeanor; 
and somehow it made Her feel as if the house 
now held for her no place. 

“And what did Alicia go to Southend for?” 
she heard him ask. And she paused on the 
stairs unconsciously for the answer. 

“She did not tell me.” 

“Did she drive?” 

“Yes, her own trap.” 

“This is the second time in a week she has 
been. I must ask her,” said Mr. Deverill, and 


90 


THE ANSWER TO 


his daughter imagined a new harshness in his 
tone. She waited no longer, however, but went 
down to the drawing-room with a cloud on her 
brow, which even little Lucy’s loving ways 
could not dispel. But in spite of Alicia’s quiet- 
ness of manner, the dinner passed off well. Mr. 
Deverill exerted himself to please. Needless to 
say, he could talk well, and on a great variety 
of subjects. It surprised him much to find in 
Craven a match for him. Reginald Craven had 
a refined and a cultivated mind ; and when ani- 
mated was an agreeable companion. Mr. Dev- 
erill wondered greatly that one so eminently 
companionable should have- been a comparative 
stranger to him all these years. He grew more 
and more affable, confidential even, over the bot- 
tle of choice Madeira placed on the table by 
Hawes at his master’s order. 

Alicia did not go to the drawing-room, but, 
saying she was tired, went back to her own 
room. 

Next morning her father and she met on the 
stairs going down to breakfast. 

‘ 4 Good - morning, Alicia. So you were at 
Southend again yesterday. Do you know any- 
body there?” 

4 ‘Yes,” replied Alicia, briefly. 

“Whom, may I ask?” 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


91 


Alicia made no reply. 

“I am waiting, my dear, for your answer.” 

-Alicia moved on speechless. Her father looked 
much annoyed ; but Alicia passed on, silent and 
defiant, to the dining-room. 

At breakfast, of course, the conversation was 
general, though Alicia took no part in it. Her 
father only spoke to her once before leaving, and 
it was only to say pointedly and harshly : 

“I shall expect some explanation when I re- 
turn, Alicia; pray remember that. ” 

His very anxiety over the child made him seem 
harsh and stern even when he did not feel so. 
Alicia resented it keenly; Philippa was grieved 
to see the expression in her face. Mr. and Mrs. 
Craven returned to town together, leaving the 
little Lucy behind. 

“I now feel quite satisfied about you, dear,” 
said Mrs. Craven, as she put on her bonnet. 
“You have a lovely home, a kind husband, 
and many blessings. I trust, Philippa, you are 
not disappointed.” 

“I am quite happy, mother. Mr. Deverill is 
so good; so considerate always. I am only anx- 
ious about Alicia. There is something there 1 
do not understand, and I wish I did!” 

“It will come in time, dear: the girl is not 
hostile to you, anybody can see that; the rest 


92 


THE ANSWER TO 


will come in time. And oh, my dear, what a 
burden has been rolled from my heart.” 

Had Philippa’s sacrifice been ten times harder, 
these words and the look of peace on her mother’s 
worn face would have repaid her. Yes, she had 
done wisely, she told herself again and again, 
yet there was something missing from her life, 
she could not tell what. Again she and Alicia 
were left to amuse each other, and directly they 
were left Philippa spoke. 

“I thought your father seemed vexed with 
you this morning.” 

u He was as cross as two sticks; but he will 
get over it,” replied Alicia, serenely. 

“What was it about?” 

“Because I did not choose to tell him what I 
was doing in Southend yesterday.” 

“Surely he has the right to know,” Philippa 
ventured to say. 

“What right? He has never taken any inter- 
est in me,” said Alicia, hotly. “He has never 
taught us to give him our confidence. He is a 
stranger to us, and now he expects too much. I 
will not be treated as a child. I am not one, 
and he must know it. I have never had any 
childhood like other children. Why, I never felt 
like that little Lucy of yours in my life. Mam- 
ma’s troubles weighed on me from my baby- 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


93 


hood. She used to tell me everything. Perhaps 
she did wrong, I don’t know; but nobody helped 
her to do right. Papa was her jailer and her 
judge; he shall not be mine.” 

She spoke with a passion most unusual in so 
young a girl; it moved Philippa very much. 
She felt that there was a good deal of truth even 
in those passionate words. 

Mr. Deverill had seriously erred in the rearing 
of his children, and now expected impossible 
results. 

“Believe me, dear, there is another side to 
your father’s nature,” she said, gently. “I — ” 

“Oh, I know! He shows it to you. 1 have 
seen it ; but he has no affection for me. I shall 
be glad if he is kinder to you than he has ever 
been to us. You can remember, whatever hap- 
pens in the future, that, after the first, I did not 
feel bitter against you ; I even like you, because 
you are so straight and true, and you haven’t 
got any airs. I wish I’d known you sooner.” 

Philippa had still that strong feeling of some- 
thing behind, something she could not reach, and 
therefore could not understand. 

“1 am very glad you like me, because you see 
we must be a great deal together. I am going 
up on Friday to spend the day with mother; will 
you come with me?” 


94 


THE ANSWER TO 


“On Friday. Shall you be gone all day?” 
asked Alicia, with a quick, reddening blush. 

“Yes, I shall go up with Mr. Deverill in the 
morning, and return by the same train at night. ” 
“Perhaps I will. I’ll see,” said Alicia; but 
shortly afterward she went upstairs and wrote a 
letter which she carried herself to the post-office 
at Wenleigh. It was addressed to Madame Tres- 
sider, at Fitzroy Square, London. 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


95 


CHAPTER XIII. 

On Friday morning Alicia did not come down 
to breakfast, and when Philippa, dressed for her 
early journey, went to her room, she complained 
of a severe headache. She certainly did not look 
particularly well, but when Philippa offered to 
remain at home with her she violently demurred. 

“No, I’ll just lie quietly a bit, and then get 
up. Don’t worry. I hope you’ll have a pleasant 
day. How nice you look in that sealskin coat ! 
Please kiss me.” 

It was the first time Alicia had asked it, and 
her face wore such an unusually sweet, child-like 
look that Philippa kissed it a good many times, 
and when she felt the girl cling to her a thrill 
went to her heart. 

In one short week how strong a hold she had 
got on the wayward heart! It augured well for 
the happiness of the future. In that moment 


96 


THE ANSWER TO 


a bright vision crossed the girl’s faithful heart; 
she saw peace, unity, love, reigning in Wenleigh 
Manor wooed thither by her alone. 

“Perhaps 1 shall come down earlier. I shall 
be thinking of you here all by yourself.” 

“No, no; don’t spoil your day for me. I am 
not worth any sacrifice. But I might have been 
different if 1 had known you sooner. Aunt 
Catherine with whom I lived is such an awful 
hypocrite. I thought most good people would 
be like her.” 

Philippa smiled. 

“You are going to forget all about Aunt Cathe- 
rine, and on Monday you and 1 must see what 
we can study together. I like languages and 
music; then you must teach me to drive.” 

“You’d better go now. Papa is always so 
cross if he has to wait a minute. Good-b} 7 . 
You don’t quite hate me?” 

“I am learning to love you very fast, Alicia.” 

“I shall never forget you, nor forgive myself 
for being so abominable to you when you came. 
But I was not altogether to blame, remember 
that.” 

Philippa laughed, gave her another kiss, and 
ran down to her husband, who was waiting with 
astonishing patience in the hall. The gentle, 
happy dlearted girl was teaching others besides 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


97 


Alicia, her unconscious influence bearing its 
daily fruit. 

4 4 What’s the matter with Alicia?” Mr. Deverill 
asked, as he helped her into the carriage. 

4 4 A headache. She looks rather tired. I think 
we shall be very happy together. I feel quite 
glad and hopeful to-day. But aren’t you going 
to wait for Wingate?” 

4 4 He’s walking, my dear, and will be at the 
station before us. It is not a mile across the 
fields. So you are glad and hopeful to-day, are 
you, my dear? It makes me glad and hopeful 
to hear it.” 

She turned round to him, and her sweet face 
wore its sweetest look. 

4 4 Don’t be angry with me, if I seem to inter- 
fere, but I wish you would be more gentle with 
Alicia. She will not be driven ; she has lived so 
long among unpleasant people that she has be- 
come quite soured. She seems surprised and 
grateful when one is kind to her. Promise me 
you will be very gentle with her, as gentle as 
you are to me. You will find her as grateful, 
perhaps more so.” 

Again Mr. Deverill gave his head a deprecat- 
ing shake. 

4 4 Why will you so constantly speak of grati- 
tude?” he asked, with a slight frown. 


98 


THE ANSWER TO 


“Because 1 am grateful, and I cannot he lpsay- 
ing so, ’ 9 she said, smilingly. 4 4 But you have given 
me no promise about Alicia. She has had such 
a dull life for a young, bright girl. The lady 
with whom she has been staying, Aunt Catherine, 
cannot be a very pleasant person .’ 9 

4 4 My cousin, Mrs. Wordsley, is considered a 
very good woman,” said Mr. Deverill. 

44 Some good people are not pleasant,” Philippa 
answered, readily. 

44 Well, I cannot say she is as pleasant as you, 
my dear, or your mother,” admitted Mr. Deverill. 
“But I thought her influence would be beneficial 
to Alicia. She is a good disciplinarian.” 

4 4 That was the mistake, ’ 9 said Philippa, rather 
sadly. “She disciplined too much. I cannot 
imagine what kind of rebels we should all have 
been had father and mother not been very loving 
with us as well as firm.” 

Mr. Deverill looked at her attentively, and a 
sigh escaped his lips. The little suburban home 
could teach the great home many things, but 
above all the lesson of kindness — the law of love. 
He saw his mistake now, though he had done his 
duty by his children according to his light. The 
very nature of his constant anxiety about them 
had caused him to think very strict discipline 
needful for them. He had sent them away be- 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER, 


99 


cause he was afraid to undertake the personal 
responsibility of their upbringing — a tremendous 
mistake always. Nothing can make up to a 
child for the lack of wise and tender parental 
guidance during its impressionable years. Mr, 
Deverill saw his mistake ; its serious consequences 
had not yet overtaken him. 

He was thinking deeply, but did not at the 
moment give utterance to his 1 hough ts; the bur- 
den of Ydiicli was a sudden, quick sense of the 
precious gift the fresh, pure, young life was to 
him, giving to him glimpses of sweetness and 
purity and strength. 

They parted at Liverpool Street, she to con- 
tinue her journey to Clapton, he and Wingate to 
Cornhill ; and Philippa carried with her a hope- 
ful and happy heart. She enjoyed her day in 
her old home, but her mother saw with a curious 
mingling of regret and satisfaction that there was 
no reluctance when the time came for her to go. 
Nay, she seemed anxious lest she should miss the 
train at which Mr. Deverill would meet her. The 
devoted mother felt, as many mothers have felt, 
that she had given up her child into other keep- 
ing, and that the new relationship had wrought 
its subtle and inevitable change. Though this is 
desirable, it is not without its pang for the ma- 
ternal heart. Mr. Deverill waited her at Liver- 


100 


THE ANSWER TO 


pool Street, and they began their homeward jour- 
ney all unconscious of any impending evil. 
Philippa was very gay as they drove from the 
station, keeping up a lively banter with Win- 
gate, Mr. Deverill listening with a somewhat 
grave smile. Sometimes he felt oppressed by 
his strong sense of his wife’s extreme youthful- 
ness; how natural it was for her to overflow 
with happy nonsense when she could get some 
one to respond. He even felt a vague envy of 
his son’s gift of youth, which once gone is be- 
yond all price, though many would give their 
thousands to buy it back. 

“1 wonder how Alicia has been all day. 1 
quite long to see her,” said Philippa, as she ran 
into the house and straight to Alicia’s room, sur- 
prised almost that the girl had not come to meet 
her. Alicia’s room was empty, and the fire out; 
the grate with the dead ashes in it somehow sent 
a chill to Philippa’s heart. Before she went to 
her own room she looked in the drawing-room, 
but found no Alicia. 

“ Where is Miss Deverill?” she inquired of 
Wilson, whom she met in the corridor as she 
returned to her own room. 

Wilson looked somewhat surprised. 

“Miss Deverill has gone to London, ma’am, by 
the twelve-thirty. She took luggage with her.” 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


101 


Philippa grew rather pale. 

“To London?” she repeated. “I heard nothing 
of it this morning. She seemed too ill to get up. ” 

“She rose, ma’am, whenever you went away, 
and she was busy all the morning, Susan says, 
packing. I didn’t see her myself, not being up- 
stairs hardly. I was in the pantry at my silver 
till tea time. She went away in the cart at 
twelve, Tebbets driving it, and she had a port- 
manteau very full.” 

“I can’t understand it, Wilson,” said Philippa, 
too much agitated to hide her alarm. “Ask Mr. 
Deverill to come up.” 

He was on the stairs already and heard her 

remark. 

“What has happened, my dear?” he asked. 

“Alicia. She has gone away, Wilson, says,” 
replied Philippa, with a white, frightened face, 
“at twelve o’clock, taking luggage with her. 
What can it mean?” 

Philippa saw a rapid change come upon her 
husband’s face. She was glad to follow him 
into the dressing-room and shut the door. 

He sank into a chair, and with a groan covered 
his face. 

Philippa perceived that he feared the worst. 
The sorrow its master had long dreaded had fallen 
on Wenleigh Manor. 


102 


THE ANSWER TO 


CHAPTER X1Y 

Alicia, with her shabby portmanteau in her 
hand, arrived at Liverpool Street between two 
and three o’clock, and took a cab to Fitzroy 
Square. There was an expression of gloom on 
the girl’s face, which betrayed a troubled mind. 
The career of which she had dreamed so long ap- 
peared less brilliant than of yore. She had taken 
the irrevocable step, and left her home forever. 
She believed her father too hard of heart ever to 
forgive her. She remembered afresh his harsh- 
ness to her mother, blaming him wholly, too 
young to understand the depth of humiliation 
and bitter pain he had suffered in his married 
life. Alicia was yet a child in knowledge of the 
world, full of theories, of vague ideas, of crude 
hopes and ambitions, but of the naked reality of 
daily life, when stripped of its trappings, she was 
ignorant as the babe unborn. Had she been less 
ignorant, unprincipled people could not so easily 
have traded on her discontent. 




104 


THE ANSWER TO 


The dull threatening sky dropped a few sad 
raindrops, as the four-wheeler which Alicia had 
taken to escape observation rumbled slowly 
through the busy streets. London looked in- 
expressibly dreary. In the city the v fog had 
scarcely lifted since morning, and the air was 
bitingly chill. It accorded well with the girl’s 
thoughts. She felt; too dull even to be annoyed 
with herself for her weakness. She only felt an 
intolerable longing to return ; the mere creature 
comforts of her father’s house appealed to her, 
for she was both cold and hungry, having left 
home without lunch. 

About three o’clock she reached Fitzroy Square, 
where the Tressiders had apartments. She was 
expected, and Madame Tressider, even more elabo- 
rately attired than usual, welcomed her effusive- 
ly, and led her into the small, stuffy back draw- 
ing-room, where it was close without being warm. 

4 4 So you have decided to cast in your lot with 
us, my love? A thousand welcomes to you!’/ 
she said, folding her in an ample embrace from 
which Alicia visibly shrank. 

4 4 Cold, tired, hungry, a little frightened,” 
chattered Madame. 4 4 Ah, it will pass; you 
shall have tea or coffee presently, and then we 
will talk. How amusing to take such French 
leave, and how our goody-goody ones will open 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


105 


their eyes, when they return to find that the bird 
has burst her prison bars. You have come at a 
good time, my little one, a brilliant season just 
commencing. Tressider was but saying last night 
that there will be an opening for you at once, 
and your promotion is certain.” 

Alicia brightened a little, and sat down as 
Madame directed at the fire. Presently a slat- 
ternly little girl brought in a very uninviting- 
looking tea-tray, and Madame made tea, talking 
all the while. 

“We have but two bedrooms besides this,” she 
said, shrugging her shoulders. “Ugh ! how hard 
are the times ! You must be content to share my 
room for a little till we grow richer. Victor and 
his father will take the other. You will not be 
too tired to go to-night to the Liberty. I sing 
there at half- past nine.” 

“I should love to go,” said Alicia, but without 
enthusiasm. 

“And you will come behind the scenes, and 
see all the stars, who will welcome you, for poor 
Nina’s sake, whom everybody loved, ” said Ma- 
dame, “and to-morrow morning Tressider will try 
your voice. Ah, here he comes! and Victor — 
actually Victor, too.” 

Alicia got up to meet the arbiter of her fate. 
Mr. Tressider was a large, heavy person, wear- 


106 


THE ANSWER TO 


ing a fur-trimmed coat and a quantity of gem 
rings on liis fingers. He wore his dark hair long, 
and looked rather foreign, though he was a genuine 
Cornishman, born at Penzance. His son, who 
followed, carrying a violin case in his hand, was 
a rather sickly, foppish-looking youth, who aped 
the manners of the richer frequenters of the 
Liberty. 

“This is Nina’s little girl, Tom,” said Ma- 
dame. “Victor, take off your hat to the daughter 
of the greatest star the Liberty has ever seen.” 

Tressider regarded Alicia with one keen 
glance, bade her a not unkindly welcome, 
and turned to the study of unpaid bills in his 
hand. The young man Victor put down his 
violin case, took off his hat, and bowed himself 
to the ground. Alicia took an instant and vio- 
lent dislike to him, which she never overcame. 
She had when she liked a touch of the haughty 
Deverill manner. She showed it now, recogniz- 
ing Victor Tressider by a slight and distant bow. 
But he was at that offensive age which is distin- 
guished by imperturbable self-complacency. He 
thought himself charming, and that every girl 
who saw him shared his opinion. His mother 
idolized him, and had done her best to spoil a 
nature not very fine at the beginning. The re- 
sult was an extremely offensive, vain, and con- 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


107 


ceitecl youth, disliked by most of those who had 
the pleasure of his acquaintance. He was a 
good musician, however, and played in the or- 
chestra at the Liberty Theater, where his mother 
occasionally appeared, and where his father was 
secretary. Having divested himself of his over- 
coat he came and sat down by Alicia, making no 
attempt to disguise his admiration for her. And 
certainly the girl looked brilliantly beautiful. 
The faded charms of Mrs. Tressider and the 
dingy surroundings seemed only to act as a foil. 
Alicia was quite unconscious of everything but 
a vague and engrossing sense of discomfort — a 
feeling that the actual fell far short of the ideal. 
She had cast the die, and she felt inclined to 
think had made a gigantic mistake. When 
she had finished tea Mrs. Tressider took her into 
the room she was to occupy, and showed her 
where to put her wardrobe. Then she returned 
to the sitting-room and carefully closed the door. 
Mr. Tressider had disposed of the bills, and was 
now scanning an evening paper, and enjoying a 
cigar. 

“ Well, Tom, have the goodness to bo sociable, 
and tell me what you think of the investment,” 
said his better half, a trifle sharply. 

“She is a stunner,” remarked Victor; but no- 
body noticed his remark. 


108 


THE ANSWER TO 


4 ‘She certainly has looks,” said Tressider, 
thoughtfully. “And she might pay in the end. 
But do you suppose for a moment that old Dev- 
erill will let her stay?” 

“He mustn’t know she’s here,” replied 
Madame, who never by any chance affected 
the foreign idiom when talking to her hus- 
band. 

Tressider laughed. 

“He’ll come straight here and kick up a row — 
that’s what you may expect.” 

“He doesn’t know we’re here. We were in 
Bedford Street in Nina’s time.” 

“I suppose he knows the Liberty, and can ask 
a question as well as any man.” 

“Leave him to me,” said Madame, stoutly. 
“I’ve taken this thing in hand, and I’ll see it 
through. ’ £ 

“There’s a bit of temper in her eye,” observed 
the reflective Victor, pushing his long fingers 
through his hair. “I like it in a girl; it’s like 
action in a horse, it shows breeding.” 

“She’ll cost a lot of money to train if her voice 
is anything,” said Tressider, who regarded his 
son generally with a kind of mild contempt. 
“If the thing goes on we’ll have an agreement 
hard and fast.” 

“Oh, we’ll keep it in the family,” said Ma. 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


109 


dame, significantly. “There’s Victor, and who 
knows what might happen?” 

Tressider finished his cigar and threw it in the 
fire. 

“If you begin that sort of thing, Maria,” he 
said, bluntly, “you’ll spoil the whole affair.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

Philippa did not know what her husband 
feared, and she dared not ask. She looked at 
him rather helplessly, not knowing what to say. 

“Let’s go down and ask Wingate,” he said at 
length, rising heavily to his feet. “I have feared 
this a long time.” 

“Then do you know where she has gone?” 
Philippa asked. 

“I can guess she has gone back to her mother’s 
friends, and I know what that means. She will 
follow in her mother’s footsteps— will be gay, 
courted, flattered, happy, she will imagine, for a 
time, and then she will go into outer darkness, 
even as poor Nina did.” 

“If you know who these people are can’t you 


110 


THE ANSWER TO 


go and fetch her home?” suggested Philippa, 
“Take me with you. She might come if I asked 
her. She seemed to like me a little, I thought, 
this morning.” 

Philippa spoke doubtfully, for now nothing 
seemed certain or to be relied upon. 

“We must question Wingate first,” he said, 
and moved toward the door. Philippa followed 
him; and they met Wingate whistling at the 
drawing-room door. 

“Halloa! what’s up?” he inquired, stopping 
short at sight of their distressed faces. 

“Do you know anything of this extraordinary 
escapade of Alicia’s, Wingate?” inquired Mr. 
Deverill, adopting unconsciously the aggressive 
tone he always used toward his children. 

“Not I; what’s up?” 

“She’s run away,” said Mr. Deverill, grimly. 
“Has she never hinted at such a thing to you?” 

“She’s hinted at lots of things, and said some 
plain out, too,” replied Wingate. “She was al- 
ways talking about having a career and doing 
something to set the Thames on fire. But I 
thought it was the way girls went on, and never 
paid any heed.” 

“You don’t know, I suppose, what she went 
to Southend for?” 

Wingate shook his head. “Never knew she’d 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


Ill 


been at Southend. Alicia was always a jolly 
good one for keeping her own counsel.” 

“You don’t know, I suppose, whether she has 
had any communication lately with a person of 
the name of Tressider?” 

“No, I don’t.” 

4 4 Then there is no more to say. Go down and 
order the brougham to come round again. The 
horses will hardly be unharnessed. There is a 
train at seven o’clock.” 

4 4 It’s half-past six now,” said Wingate. 4 4 If 
he looks sharp he can catch it. ’ ’ 

Philippa turned round and ran upstairs. Be- 
fore the brougham came round to the door again 
she was in the hall dressed in outdoor garb. 
Wilson busy at tlie dinner table looked scared. 

4 4 We have to return to town, Wilson,” Phi- 
lippa said, thinking some explanation due. 4 4 Mr. 
Wingate will dine alone. Mr. Deverill and 1 
cannot of course return to-night.” 

4 4 Let me fetch up a plate of hot soup or some- 
thing, madam,” said the kind girl. 4 4 It is quite 
ready.” 

4 4 Bring it up; if Mr. Deverill can take a 
mouthful *1 shall be glad.” 

Wilson flew to obey, and presently Mr. Dev- 
erill came down, and looked astonished to see 
his wife. 


112 


THE ANSWER TO 


“Where are you going, my dear?” 

“With you, of course. My place is with you, 
surely, at such a time. Don’t send me away, 
Martin; I am .as anxious about poor Alicia as 
you are!” 

Mr. Deverill made no reply, but his mouth 
twitched. Then Wingate’s wistful faca ap- 
peared at the library door. 

“Wish you’d take me, too. It’ll be so awfully 
slow for me here, all by myself.” 

“Somebody must stay,” said Mr. Deverill, 
quickly, but something in the boy’s face touched 
him. “You will not fail* me, Wingate. I have 
not done my duty by you, though God knows I 
tried to do it. We will begin anew. She will 
show us how.” 

He turned a look of inexpressible trust and 
affection on his wife. 

Wingate, amazed and touched as he had never 
been in his whole life, replied, a trifle unsteadily: 

“Of course, I’ll stay. Don’t take on, dad. 
Alicia’s always up to tricks, and will, like as 
not,. be home to-morrow.” 

Wingate was only a boy, and did not under- 
stand. But his father, appreciating ins desire 
to comfort him, wrung his hand, and so there 
was established between father and son that 
night an understanding which was never after- 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


113 


ward disturbed, and which made a certain de- 
gree of brightness in the home, even though the 
other shadow did not lift. 

They drove quickly across the sodden roads to 
Leigh, and just caught the train, which took 
them into Liverpool Street again at half-past 
eight. Mr. Deverill took a hansom, and they 
drove to an address he had in his pocketbook, a 
house in Bedford Street. He was not much sur- 
prised to be told there that the Tressiders had 
left some time ago, and that their whereabouts 
was not known to their former landlord. 

“What will you do now?” Philippa asked 
when he entered the cab. 

“Go to the theater. The man I want to see is 
employed there,” he replied, and his mouth took 
a long, stern curve, which those who knew him 
best generally feared. But Philippa had been 
reared in a sunny atmosphere, where that dark 
specter, fear, had never entered; and she was 
always unconscious of her husband’s moods, the 
secret of her great and growing influence over 
him. She treated him as if he were gentle, un- 
selfish, lovable, like her own father, and it was 
the sure way to make him so. 

The performance at the Liberty Theater was 
in full swing. Mr. Deverill asked for Mr. Tres- 
sider, but was told he could not be seen; his pri- 


114 


THE ANSWER TO 


vate address in Fitzroy Square was willingly 
given. 

“We cannot see them till the performance is 
over, my dear,” he said. “We had better go 
inside, and then, perhaps, you will better 
understand the horrible nature of my anx- 
iety.” 

He paid for a box, and they entered, seating 
themselves well back. Philippa had never been 
at a music-hall performance; the Liberty did 
not differ in any degree from others of its class. 
She shrank back a little, as was natural, not 
having been used to such a sight as the ballet 
being presented on the stage. Mr. Deverill sat 
grimly, with his arms folded, looking out fixed- 
ly, yet seeing but little. The place was haunted 
by the most bitter memories of many wasted 
hours and many broken hopes. Time was when 
Martin Deverill, the wealthy young city mer- 
chant, was never absent from his place in the 
Liberty stalls. 

By and by Philippa leaned forward and 
touched his arm, her face very troubled. 

“Oh, Martin, do you think it is a life like this 
Alicia craves for? We must save her from it. 
She is worthy of a higher destiny. ’ ’ 

“On that stage I first saw her mother. Once 
the spell of its fascination is cast over Alicia, she 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


115 


will never return to us. If we can’t get her now 
we may give her up. ’ ’ 

There was a restrained anguish in his voice 
which his wife keenly felt. She sat quite out of 
sight, not caring to look any longer on the gay 
figures, who, no doubt, numbered among them 
many sore hearts. 

In the box directly above them sat Alicia, 
breathless, enchanted, open-eyed and open-eared, 
forgetful for the moment of everything but the 
scene before her. Mr. Tressider and two other 
gentlemen stood behind, enjoying her evident, 
delight. 

And so the evening wore to its close. When 
the performance was over, Mr. Deverill put his 
wife into a carriage, and waited at the stage- 
entrance to the theater. ITe was there, standing 
when Victor Tressider, with a cigarette in his 
mouth, emerged into the street. Mr. Deverill 
did not recognize him, but that sharp-witted 
youth recognized him, and speedily returned to 
the theater to give timely warning. It was the 
easiest matter in the world for Madame and her 
charge to leave the theater by another door. 
Mr. Deverill, therefore, waited in vain ; and 
finally drove to the house in Fitzroy Square. 

Tressider had not come home with his wife. 
She sent a message to Mr. Deverill, saying it 


116 


THE ANSWER TO 


was impossible that she could see him that night, 
but that he might call at eleven o’clock next 
morning. She declined, through the servant, to 
answer a single question. Mr. Deverill was 
baffled. He could do nothing but wait till the 
interview of the morning. 

He therefore directed the cabman to drive 
them to the Grand Hotel, where they spent the 
night. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Punctually at eleven o’clock Mr. Deverill’s 
hansom drove up to the door of the house in 
Fitzroy Square, and he was at once admitted. 
He had to wait some little time in the sitting- 
room before Madame Tressider came to him. 
She entered quite coolly, and though Mr. Dev- 
erill’s manner and look were forbidding in the 
extreme she did not appear in the least embar- 
rassed. 

“1 was sorry not to see you last night; but I 
am dead tired when I return from the theater. 
I hope I see you well, Mr. Deverill.” 

“I want my daughter,” he said, curtly. 
“You need not deny that she is here.” 

“She was here last night,” said Madame^ 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


117 


frankly. “Today she has gone into the coun- 
try with Tressider. Ah, did I not laugh last 
night when I saw you in the box below her? 
It was a bit of unrehearsed comedy I most 
heartily en j oy ed . * y 

“You have enticed her away from her home/’ 
began Mr. Deverill, passionately, but Madame 
interrupted him by a languid wave of the hand. 

“Oh, I know all you would say. That it is so 
false does not concern me. Only one thing 1 
will say, she is not a child. She knows her 
own mind, and she has been under your care 
for seventeen years, and now when she is of an 
age to judge for herself, she has deliberately 
chosen us. We are poor, but we will be kind to 
her for her mother’s sake. 5 ’ 

Mr. Deverill’s lip curled. 

“It is such kindness as she will repudiate when 
she has learned something of the world’s ways. 
We will leave the past alone, if you please, Ma- 
dame Tressider. You and I have had some bit- 
ter passages in it; it will serve no purpose to recall 
them now. What I wish to say is, if it is a 
question of money name your price for the res- 
toration of my daughter.” 

Madame Tressider’s restless eyes gleamed a 
little, but she was too wily to show that his words 
interested her at all. 


118 


THE ANSWER TO 


“It is not a question of money. The child’s 
heart is where her mother’s ever was — in her 
art,” she said, loftily. “Tressider and I out of 
pure affection for her will do what we can. The 
child knows* very well that it is an ambition you 
will thwart* to the bitter end.” 

“I will, but I give you notice that I shall not 
give her up until 1 have seen her, and I shall 
speedily learn whether undue influence is being 
used. You will be closely watched, Madame, 
and I shall be relentless, if there is need.” 

Madame fumbled in her jacket and produced 
a sealed letter. 

“Alicia left this for you. I told her you would 
come, asked if she wished to see you; there was 
no hesitation in her reply. It is not for you, Mr. 
Deverill; it is addressed to your new wife.” 

Mr. Deverill took it and put it in his pocket. 
Madame was herself curious concerning the con- 
tents ; it said something for her that she had not 
tampered with it in any way. Had she felt less 
sure of the girl she would have had fewer scruples. 

Mr. Deverill felt in a very bitter mood. His 
brows were bent, his jaws set like iron; in his 
eyes shone a dark gleam. He knew this woman 
of old. She had been his wife’s dearest friend, 
and he knew her to be unscrupulous, untruthful, 
absolutely without principle. To leave Alicia 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


119 


there seemed like abandoning a little boat rud- 
derless on a great sea. He felt his own impo- 
tence, and it wrung his very soul. It was useless 
to appeal to her ; he felt that he must first see 
what Alicia had written to his wife, and take 
further counsel. As he turned to go, he looked 
her very fully in the face. 

4 4 You have some object in view, Madame Tres- 
sider ; what it is I know not. If it is revenge for 
the past, I forgive you. But this I swear, I will 
leave no stone unturned to get back my daugh- 
ter. No good can come to her here. I am cast- 
ing no reflections on your character; you know 
as well as I what is the life to which you would 
introduce her, for what end Heaven alone knows, 
unless to see her ruined as was her unhappy 
mother.” 

44 You insult me, Mr. Deverill, in the absence 
of my husband and my son,” said Madame Tres- 
sider, with an assumption of dignity, which might 
have provoked a smile on her listener’s face, had 
he been less anxious and unhappy. 

Without another word or parting salutation of 
any kind, he left the house and re-entered the 
cab, where his wife sat trembling with 
anxiety. 

4 4 She is not there; they took her out of town to 
escape my visit,” he said, curtly, in reply to her 


120 


THE ANSWER TO 


anxious look. “Read what she says. It is ad- 
dressed to you.” 

Philippa took the letter, surprised to see the 
seal unbroken. There was no sort of ambiguity 
about Alicia’s communication, which ran as fol- 
lows : 

“Dear Mrs. Deverill— -I write to you rather 
than to my father because I know you will under- 
stand and be less hard upon me than he will.” 

Philippa would have spared him these words, 
but he read with her, and she could not soften 
them in any way. 

“This step I have taken,” the letter continued, 
“is not taken on the impulse of the moment. I 
have always meant to follow in my mother’s 
footsteps. Nothing will ever satisfy me but a 
public career. I know I shall succeed. I feel it 
in my inmost heart. I had to wait till I was old 
enough or I should have run away from Cam- 
bridge long ago. I wish now I had run away 
before you came, because it would have been 
easier. I felt a good deal sneaking away from 
you yesterda} 7- . I have only known you a week, 
but I have never met anybody I liked so much. 
I hope I shall see you again some day. Perhaps 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


121 


when I become as famous as I mean to be you 
will not be ashamed to shake hands with me. I 
promise you this. I am not very old, but 1 know 
a good deal more than you do, 1 believe ; I will 
never forget that you would like me to be good. 
You may tell papa that, wherever he may meet 
me again, he need not be ashamed. He may be 
very angry, but he will never be ashamed. And 
tell him from me not to make Wenleigh a jail for 
you as he did for my mother, and that though 
you are a woman you may have some rights. I 
am one of the sort that take m} r rights without 
waiting to have them giren me. If you don’t 
do that some time you may live and die without 
them. Don’t worry about me. I’ll turn up 
again and report myself. 

“You may tell papa nobody has coerced me to 
do this, and not a soul has seen this letter. I do 
not like the people I am living with, and never 
shall. Madame Tressider thinks I am a child, 
and treats me like one, but I am a woman in 
some things, and my eyes are wide open. Mow 
I need not write any more. 

“I remain yours truly, 

“Alicia Deverill. 

“P.S — Wingate is a good sort, and will be a 
comfort to you. I send him my love.” 


122 


THE ANSWER TO 


This odd epistle produced diverse emotions in 
the minds of the pair who perused it together. 
It had its amusing side, which Philippa could 
not help seeing, and it certainly gave Mr. Deverill 
a glimpse into the mind of his daughter which 
astonished him. 

“I have tried to keep her a child, and she has 
never been one,” he said, gravely. “What a let- 
ter for a girl of seventeen to write, and what do 
you think of it, and what are we to do now?” 

Philippa had no hesitation in replying. 

“Alicia must be seen. I must see her if pos- 
sible, and she must be made to understand at 
once that her career, her ambition, are our affair, 
yours and mine, and that, instead of thwarting 
her, we will do our best to satisfy her desire for 
a career.” 

Mr. Deverill turned to his wife in the greatest 
possible surprise 

“Would you then encourage her in the career 
she has chosen so mistakenly, knowing nothing 
of its pitfalls, its hardships, its bitter side?” 

“I should direct her ambition into healthier 
channels, Martin. If she has a voice it can be 
trained for use. She might even be able to do 
great good with it. The mistake with Alicia has 
been restraining her too much. She must have 
scope, or, as she says here, she will take it.” 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


123 


“Oh, how blind 1 have been!” said Mr. Dev- 
erill, with a sigh. “I would to God I had met 
you before, Philippa, and so given to my children 
a companion so wise, so tender, so truly good.” 

These were sweet words, which sent a glow to 
Philippa’s heart. 

“I leave the matter entirely in your hands, 
Philippa ; you can spend as you like, and do as 
you think best. And if Alicia comes back, 
which I pray God she will, her future shall be 
left to you.” 

The days went by, no stone was left unturned, 
no effort spared, but Alicia Deverill came no more 
to Wenleigh Manor. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The table was laid for the Christmas dinner 
at Wenleigh Manor. The dining-room, a quaint 
old room, paneled in black oak and furnished in 
exquisite harmony, presented a bright, cheerful, 
homelike picture that Christmas Eve. The logs 
were piled high in the old dog-grate, and the 
light lay warm and ruddy on the table so ex- 
quisitely arranged with wealth of Christmas roses 
and some early snowdrops, which the mild De- 


124 


THE ANSWER TO 


cember days had tempted to peep out before their 
time. The chairs were set for the guests, a goodly 
array, though it was only a family party such 
as gathered there as every Christmas Eve came 
round, Outside the snow fell royally, and those 
who loved to see the hedgerows white at yule 
were gratified, though there were some to whom 
the white benediction was less welcome. It was 
now half-past six, at seven the guests would 
gather round the Christmas board. The mis- 
tress of the house came presently to see that all 
was in readiness. She entered the room in that 
quick, graceful way peculiar to her, and as she 
stood, just within the doorway, made an uncon- 
scious picture. The years which had brought no 
change to Wenleigh, had wrought but little 
change in her. She still looked very young, 
very girlish, and there was a sweetness in her 
look, a still, lovely quiet in her eyes which be- 
tokened a heart at rest. She wore a very rich 
gown of black silk, and the neck, the priceless 
lace revealed rather than hid, was white as the 
falling snow. She wore her years serenely, her 
wifehood and motherhood had brought out all 
that was loveliest in that lovely nature, had in- 
tensified its sweetness and made it a strong, gra- 
cious, and perfect thing. Many blessed the name 
of Martin Deverill’s second wife; many envied 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


125 


him his happiness and his home. Her face was 
quite grave as she regarded the exquisite decora- 
tions her hands had planned ; there was none of 
that bright elation natural in the circumstances. 
Christmas every year deepened the one shadow 
which lay upon Philippa’s heart — the shadow 
which was there always, and which she now 
feared would no more lift from her own life and 
her husband’s — the shadow that fell the day 
Alicia went away. There were two little girls now 
in the Manor nursery, and very often was Philip- 
pa’s heart filled to overflowing by his great un- 
speakable tenderness toward these two. He could 
not bear to hear them chided, to see a cloud upon 
their faces. The ordinary griefs of childhood 
which weeps over a broken toy or the crossing of 
a childish whim, were intolerable to him. It was 
no use to reason with him. He would only shake 
his head, and say mournfully : 

“Hush, hush, Philippa; 1 cannot forget. Don’t 
let me sow a second bitter harvest.” 

And then she became silent because she knew 
he thought of his lost child, whom they had never 
heard of since that bitter day five years ago. 
Philippa thought of her as she looked at the 
chairs, and said to herself that had one been set 
for Alicia life would have no more to offer. She 
was still standing, her hand on the back of the 


126 


THE ANSWER TO 


old oak chair, when her husband came to seek 
her. Time had dealt gently, too, with Martin 
Deverill, and his was a strong, beautiful, trust- 
inspiring face, from which the old-time sternness 
had forever gone. He had become, through his 
wife’s influence, gentle of heart as a little child. 
Great happiness had made him humble and 
grateful, just as former misery had hardened 
and imbittered. But sometimes he had a grave, 
weary look, because he felt that an answer with- 
held to many prayers indicated that the follies 
- and the mistakes of his earlier manhood had not 
yet been atoned for. Quick to catch the shadow 
on his wife’s dear face, he laid his hand on her 
shoulder and turned her to him. 

4 ‘Dearest, what is it?” 

“Nothing; only the old sorrow. I was but 
saying to myself that ^if Alicia could sit down 
with us my cup would be full. I think about 
her every day I live, Martin; of late she has 
been in my thoughts continually. I am more 
than ever certain that she is not dead.*” 

He did not speak, and she laid her hand 
against his cheek. 

“It is better to speak of it, dear, a little to- 
night. I know what is in your heart as you 
know mine. I have such a strange feeling, 
dearest, as if Alicia would come somehow; as 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


127 


if she were not far away. I have had it all day. 
I suppose it is with thinking of her all day. 
Have I vexed you needlessly, dear?” 

“No, I was but asking myself what I am that 
you should take such loving interest in me and 
mine.” 

“Oh, Martin, you foolish, foolish man,” she 
cried with a mirth-provoking smile, though in- 
wardly tempted to throw herself on his breast. 

“Wingate and Mary must have arrived. 
There is such a noise. Fancy Wingate with 
a wife of his own — Wingate, who was such a 
boy when I came to Wenleigh.” 

The merry voices in the hall drew them away 
from that quiet moment, and they went to wel- 
come the happy young pair who had only been 
married a month ago, and had hurried home in 
time to dine at Wenleigh on Christmas Day. 
Wingate’s wife in her marriage gown was a 
sight to see — a creature so radiant in her youth- 
fulness and overflowing ‘ gladness that she car- 
ried sunshine everywhere. So they all trooped 
to the drawing-room, where we find Reginald 
Craven and his wife and all the children, though 
some of them are children no longer, Anna being 
a clergyman’s wife, and Lucy newly engaged to 
a friend of Stansfield’s, also present that night. 
It was a happy family party, and when they all 


128 


THE ANSWER TO 


went down and took their seats it was noticed 
that there was a vacant chair between Mr. Dev- 
erill and Philippa; and nobody said a word, for 
a sudden hush of expectancy fell upon them; 
and Mr. Deverill was evidently too much agi- 
tated to speak. 

“It is my doing, dears, ” said Philippa, with a 
faint, unsteady smile. “You all know what is 
the only shadow upon our happy hearts. I have 
been praying all the year for Alicia to come back, 
and I thought to-day, quite suddenly, how ab- 
surd and wicked it was to pray always and ex- 
pect nothing, and somehow I think Alicia will 
come to-night, and now we are ready for her, 
and she will see that we have thought of her, 
and loved her all the time . 5 ’ 

Nobody had anything ready to say in reply to 
this little speech of Philippa’s, but even. as the 
meal went on, and the talk rose and fell in a 
pleasant murmur, there were moments when the 
hush of expectancy fell upon them again, and 
they almost waited for the opening of the 
door. 

Before the Christmas pudding was brought in 
all ablaze, the two little girls all in white, with 
dancing eyes and cheeks pink with excitement, 
came from their nursery, and room was made 
for them, but the empty chair remained with the 


A VACANT CHAIR 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER 


129 


€ 




130 


THE ANSWER TO 


silver in the place before it, and the serviette 
with its little red sprig of holly stood up stiff 
and neat, waiting for the absent fingers to 
smooth its glossy folds. 

And somehow it was no surprise to any, 
though a hush of awe, which was almost 
fear, came upon them, when there was a great 
ring at the bell, and then there came a sound 
which no one had thought to hear — Ihe lisp of a 
baby’s voice. Philippa rose up, trembling, 
looking to the door, the color coming fitfully 
in her face. Her husband’s was deadly pale, 
and he sat motionless as a statue, while his little 
daughter made a great clatter on the table with 
her silver spoon, and then the door opened, and 
there entered a tall and slim figure, clad in dark 
garments, and she had, clasped in her arms, a 
little child. She looked neither to the right nor 
to the left, but went straight to her father’s chair 
and knelt there, and her face, lovely in its an- 
guish, in its passionate appeal, was Alicia’s face 
— the same, yet not the same, for the girl was 
gone forever, and it was the face of a woman 
who had drunk the cup of life to the dregs. She 
spoke, seemingly forgetful of all present, save 
the white marble face of her father, from which 
her eyes never traveled for a moment, and her 
words fell strangely upon the ears of those who 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


131 


listened, and buried themselves in their hearts, 
never to be forgotten. 

“I have come back, papa, bringing my little 
child. We have no home upon earth, he and I, 
but only here. I have come back because I 
know now, through him, what I did in leaving 
you. When I looked in at the window and saw 
the vacant chair and your face beside it, a 
warmth came to my starved heart ; but for that 
I should not have dared to come. Am I for- 
given, father, and will you let me sleep here 
this one night, till I dream again what it is to 
have a home?” 

Philippa got up, and, as she made one beckon- 
ing wave to the door, her face shone and her 
eyes were radiant like the stars. 

“God has answered my prayer. He is here,” 
she said. “Let us go,” 


132 


THE ANSWER TO 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

The little child with Alicia’s eyes and mouth 
slept soundly in the bed, its soft breath scarcely 
stirring the eiderdown above it. In the old 
basket- chair, where Alicia had dreamed away 
so many idle hours, sat Philippa, and the wan- 
derer half sat, half knelt, upon the floor beside 
her with her head upon her knee. The garments 
that the snow had wet were now exchanged for 
a soft crimson dressing-gown of Philippa’s, and 
the tired face looked a little less tired, and had a 
new peace set upon it. Philippa’s hand, gentle, 
soft, caressing, touched the sunk head tenderly, 
as a mother might, and there was a love most 
motherly in her eyes. 

“You see we have kept the room. Nobody 
has ever slept in it since you went away. Once 
the house was very full, and I gave up my own 
room, and had a bed in the schoolroom, lest you 
might come back that verjr night and feel that 
there was no room.” 

Alicia took a quick breath like a sob and 
folded her in her arms. 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


133 



“I LOOKED IN AT THE WINDOW AND SAW THE VACANT CHAIR. 



134 


THE ANSWER TO 


“You thought I would come back,” she said. 
“Papa has told me how you have always said it. 
How did you know?” 

“I knew,” Philippa answered, “that one day 
— perhaps through bitter sorrow, but certainly 
somehow — your heart would awaken to your 
father, and you would know that nothing on 
earth can destroy that tie which God has made. 
Cruelty may weaken it; but death only can 
break it. But I did not think it would be 
through motherhood. Oh, my poor Alicia, my 
poor dear girl, how you must have suffered!” 

“I have a husband,” said Alicia, calmly; but 
Philippa saw how her breast heaved with her 
quick breathing. “A husband whom I despise, 
with whom I cannot live and respect myself. I 
thought,” she said, falteringly, “that perhaps 
you would take care of my little child for me 
while I went to work for it. It was very humil- 
iating to come back, and I fought the desire as 
long as I could, but your eyes drew me back, 
and the longing to see my father became quite 
intolerable.” 

“As I knew it would,” said Philippa, quietly. 
“You will never quit us any more, my darling; 
I am going to leave you now to go to bed. One 
day, when you are able, perhaps you will tell me 
it all.” 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


135 


“I wish to tell you now,” answered Alicia. 
“I shall sleep, the sounder for it, if I sleep at all. 
I will make it short ; and you are so quick to un- 
derstand that I shall be able to leave details.’’ 

“Goon,” said Philippa, very tenderly, and her 
clasp of the slender fingers tightened. 

Alicia looked steadily in the fire for a few 
minutes and then began : 

“Soon after I had written that letter to papa 
— in fact only two days afterward — we went to 
Manchester to live.” 

“You mean the Tressiders?” 

“Yes. Mr. Tressider got an appointment at 
one of the theaters there and had to leave at 
once, and there my education began.” 

“Your education for the stage?” 

Alicia nodded, and a slight weary smile 
touched her lips. 

“Madame gave me lessons in dancing. Mr. 
Tressider trained my voice, and Victor tried 
to teach me the violin; it was a family con- 
cern.” 

“ Who is Victor?” 

“Victor Tressider, my husband. I am one of 
them now — at least 1 was; but I have left them, 
never to go back. 

4 4 This sort of thing went on for about a year, 
and I was so sick of the whole thing 1 could 


136 THE ANSWER TO 

have run away ten times over. But they had 
me bound hand and foot by my obligations to 
them. Madame was perpetually telling me how 
much I owed them, and I knew I was in their 
debt for the very food I ate. It was bitter as 
gall to me. By-and-by I had some singing les- 
sons from a master, not Tom Tressider, and he 
told me I had a fortune in my voice. After 
that I took courage and tried to look ahead to 
the time when I should be independent of them. 
I played once or twice minor parts on the stage, 
and when I could do that I forgot the sordid 
degradation of my position, and would even 
think my old ambition still a possible thing. 
All the time that horrible Victor Tressider paid 
me attentions, and they all spoke from the first 
as if it were quite settled that I was to marry 
him. He was such a fool, so empty-headed, so 
devoid of every manly quality that the thought 
of it made me shudder. Yet Mrs. Victor Tres- 
sider I became in due course, just as they had 
planned from the beginning. ’ ’ 

“But how did they manage it, Alicia?” Phi- 
lippa asked. “You used to be a strong-willed 
person, not easily influenced or — ” 

“I thought I was, but they broke my spirit 
among them. I don’t know how it was done; 
but it seemed to me, after a long course of nag- 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


137 


ging over my ingratitude, that there was no 
other course open to me. They said, too, that it 
was my only chance of success, that the name of 
Tressider even would help me, and that they, of 
course, would use their influence more strenu- 
ously for one of their own.” 

“Had they any influence?” asked Philippa. 
“I do not know very much about theatrical 
matters, but their name does not seem to be 
held in high repute.” 

Alicia laughed, and Philippa did not like the 
sound. 

“I was too young and ignorant to know that 
they were of no account whatever. They played 
upon my ignorance, especially Madame, in a 
way which might have opened my eyes in 
time. 

“Well, at the end of two years, just before I 
was to make the grand debut they were always 
talking about, I married Victor Tressider.” 

“Caring nothing for him, Alicia?” said Mrs. 
Deverill. “That was the greatest mistake of 
all.” 

“Not only caring nothing for him, but despis- 
ing him with my whole soul. But I had grown 
desperate through the humiliation of my position, 
and was too young and ignorant to know that 
had I gone with my voice to almost any man- 


138 


THE ANSWER TO 


ager in London my fortune and his would have 
been made.” 

“Well,” said Philippa, with intense interest, 
for Alicia had paused a moment as if not* caring 
to proceed. 

“Well, I married him; and then the bitterness 
of death began.” 

“Was he unkind to you, my dear?” 

“Not actively — at least at first. It was only 
after I lost my voice that I saw through their 
hollowness, and knew what all their pretenses had 
meant.” 

“Did you lose your voice?” 

“Yes, about twelve months after my marriage 
we were touring in the provinces ; and I was play- 
ing a leading part for the first time, and begin- 
ning to taste the sweetness of success, when I 
took a serious illness. I was in bed for two 
months, and when I got up again my voice was 
gone.” 

“Never to come back?” 

“They did not give me much hope, and cer- 
tainly it has not come back, though it is two 
years now since my illness.” 

“Well, what then?” 

“Then the Tressiders showed themselves in 
their true light, Madame especially making no 
effort to hide her anger and disappointment. 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


139 


She even told me I had spoiled her son’s life. 
Old Tressider himself was the least unkind of 
all.” 

“ And what did you do?” 

“I had to work, but there were some things 
I would not do ; some parts I would not play, 
though they had killed me. My own intuitions 
were too strong; and I paid no attention to their 
threats. Oh, the sordid misery of it all ! I had 
one or two kind friends among those employed 
at the theater, or I think I must have died.” 

“And so after a time you could bear it no 
longer, and came away?” 

Alicia nodded. 

“After the child came I made up my mind. I 
loved him, though I never had a common liking 
even for his father ; and I resolved that he should 
be saved from their contamination. I thought 
of you as one thinks of an impossible heaven. 
Through all these terrible years you have been 
a secret refuge to me, for I could steal to you in 
thought and dwell upon your sweetness, your 
goodness ; you seemed to stand to me in the place 
of God.” 

“Oh, hush, hush! Yet you left me, Alicia,” 
said Philippa, with a great mournfulness. “But 
peace and some happiness are possible to you; 
pray for it even yet. Your father will never let 


140 


THE ANSWER TO 


you go any more, dear: you saw that in his 
face.” 

“I did, and I heard him say it, too. Thank 
God, thank God!” cried Alicia. And then she 
bent her head, and a great tempest shook her, as 
the winter winds shake the unsheltered trees. 

“Do they know where you have gone?” 

“They do not care; and if they do know, they 
will not seek me. I am no further use. I can- 
not earn enough to make me valuable in their 
eyes; they are glad to be rid of*me.” 

Philippa glanced toward the bed. 

“But your husband may cause you trouble for 
the child’s sake. He may wish to have him.” 

“If he does I am ready for him,” said Alicia, 
with a slow, quiet, exceeding bitter smile. “The 
law is not always just to women, but this time it 
will be on my side, and very well Victor Tressi- 
dei knows it. I spoke very plainly to him be- 
fore I went away, and he will trouble me no 
more.” 

Philippa folded her arms round the drooping 
figure, as if she would never let it go again. 

“Oh, Alicia, if you had but trusted us!” was 
the unavailing cry that rose to her lips. 

A light tap at the door disturbed them, and 
Wingate’s wife, in a trailing dressing-gown, 
peeped in, a little timidly. 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 


141 


“May I come in?” she asked, with her sunny 
smile. “I am going to bed; but I want to see 
Wingate’s sister — and mine.” 

Alicia rose and looked at the girlish figure, the 
sweet face framed by sunny hair and lighted by 
eyes as blue as Italian skies ; and a kind of con- 
tent gathered in her own. 

“Wingate has done well, has he not?” she 
asked, turning to Philippa. “When I see what 
happy marriage can be my own folly seems the 
greater. I will talk to you to-morrow, dear; I 
am not very well to-night.” 

She returned the sisterly kiss tenderly — nay, 
with a certain touching look of gratitude which 
sent Mary Deverill back to her husband with her 
own eyes wet. 

“I had lost belief in everything,” she said, as 
the door closed. ‘ £ But I believe it will live again. 
I did not think that such forgiveness and love 
were possible out of heaven.” 

Philippa said nothing. She was bending over 
the bed where the child, Martin Deverill Tressi- 
der, lay in his unconscious sleep; and her heart, 
weighed down by a great bitterness because of 
the blight that had fallen on the girl’s life, up- 
lifted itself in earnest, nay passionate prayer. 

“Life is not over, dear,” she said at last. 
“There is much left, and hope will spring anew.” 


THE ANSWER TO 


142 


“If God will,” Alicia answered, and her tears 
fell like summer rain. 

After a time, long, sad, and weary, hope awoke 
to its second spring in Alicia’s heart. God re- 
stored to her her gift of song. And that precious 
heritage which had first been her undoing, being 
consecrated to higher service, became the benedic- 
tion of her life, sweetening all things and making 
the future rich with possibilities. And after a 
long time, when the man whose name she bore 
had lived out his short and ill-spent life, she used 
it again in public in aid of the sick, the suffering, 
and the sad. I am not permitted here to reveal 
all ; but those who hear that gifted singer plead 
through these heaven- born notes for love and 
mercy and sweet compassion toward all suffer- 
ing humanity know that the music which stirs 
in them all that is noblest and best, and most 
near to the divine, has been wrung from a heart 
touched by the keenest sorrow a woman’s heart 
can know. She is always ready for the good 
work lying to her hand, and the atonement thus 
permitted to her has brought to her face a lovely 
peace which those who love her, and these are 
very many, rejoice to see. Yet there abides on 
her calm brow always the seal of a great sadness, 
the fruit of the tree of knowledge having been so 
bitter to the taste. She abides always in the old 


143 


A CHRISTMAS PRAYER. 

Manor House of Wenleigh, and her boy grows 
up side by side with Philippa’s children, and they 
are as one happy family. And though Philippa 
sees how exquisite is the bond between father and 
daughter, and how often Alicia’s arm is given 
to her father as they walk, she suffers no jealous 
pang. Her large, generous heart has room for 
nothing but pure joy that it is so. And her own 
place is sure. She is the beloved center of that 
happy home; and the words of the wise man 
might be writ large as her crown: 

“The heart of her husband doth safely trust 
in her. Her children arise up and call her 
blessed.” 


THE END. 



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